The Seed
by albee1000
Summary: An AU Hey Arnold! Sword-n-Sorcery fanfic gift for Blonde Cecille. Warning: There will be blood, some violence, Arnold in the all natural.
1. Chapter 1

The Seed – part 1

by KM Scott

_To BC – Happy Birthday, and have many more!_

The roan had been ridden hard for 15 leagues through night and dawn, then night again. White froth ran down from it's mouth as it's metal-shod hoofs punished the sod beneath, tearing at the distance between the rider and his destination at a speed that would never be fast enough.

The knight pushed his ride hard, but he dared not push it harder – Nadine was a friend and a lover of animals. To have been responsible for the thoughtless injury of her favorite horse would've left him regretful for the rest of his life, however long that turned out to be. He would not slow his pace, however – the precious cargo mounted behind him and secured with bindings under its dirty, dark blue covering couldn't bear to wait an hour longer.

As the lesser moon of the sky of Emiria settled into its final phase, Sir Gerald of Hillwood's desperate eyes finally found the elation they sought – a tiny cottage just on the rim of a line of mountains, a dim candle's light in a window winking at him. He cried out in joy as he spurred his ride toward the little house.

Stopping just along the edge of the porch, Sir Gerald threw himself off his saddle, suppressing a pained grunt. The dark crimson of his tunic could not hide the tell-tale bleeding along his left thigh, or any of the plethora of wounds he'd suffered, for that matter. With luck, the infection would merely be severe instead of life threatening, and he tended to be a very lucky man. He quickly limped to the front door, banged on it roughly, then retreated back to Nadine's horse, hastily untying the bunched-up cargo from her back.

He gently lifted the uncooperative burden into his arms and hobbled up to the door once more, raising his fist to give it another pounding, when it snapped open abruptly.

A woman stood tall and lean on the other side of it. Her pale-golden locks fell in splendid braids down the back of her flowing, pink gown. She blasted a look of surprised anger at her nighttime intruder from her radiant green eyes, her smooth, pink skin reddening at the impudence of whoever would call so late.

"What's the meaning of this?" she growled, nearing her visitor. "Pounding on my door in the middle of the night? How dare you ---!"

"Helga," Gerald interrupted, his voice both firm and pleading – and she stopped. The woman, Helga, narrowed her eyes, her angst draining away the moment she heard his voice.

"Gerald?" she said softly.

"Please," he responded, "I have to come in. You must see us tonight!"

Helga blinked in confusion. "Us? You and your horse?"

But Gerald had maneuvered past her and into the cottage. It was a small affair, really nothing more than a bedroom and dining area. What furniture there was sat unimpressive, but functional. Amongst the bigger settings was the dining table, which Gerald swept clear with one arm while holding the prized freight with the other, promptly putting it down on the cleared space when done.

"Hey!" Helga yelled. "I'll have you know I plan to eat breakfast on that tomorrow! What right do you think you have to barge in here and leave that filthy load on my table?!"

In answer, Gerald fumbled around one side of the covering, unfurling a stitching that kept two sides closely bound together. It fell open. Revealed underneath was a face – the face of an unconscious young man, no more than 20. He had yellow hair, the color of cornflower, which lay in a tangled mess around his head.

The head had a distinctive shape to it; one that even the kindest observer would have to admit was rather … almond-like. It did not, however, distract from a natural, unobtrusive handsomeness. If anything, a sense of almost endearing helplessness framed his face, aided in no small part by his ragged breathing.

Helga was stunned, her mouth opening and closing to give voice to a thousand emotions, not a single one of which were verbalized.

"…Arnold …" she whispered.

"He was bitten," Gerald weakly explained. Helga immediately moved to the insensate boy, ripping at the covering around him. "Get this off him," she ordered. Gerald complied, and soon the covering was off, but Helga was still working with the boy's shirt. Gerald reached to help her lift it off, but she tore it open with one effortless yank.

What they saw underneath made their blood run cold. The boy's chest was alive – moving, scurrying, and roiling as if there were a colony of spiders underneath the epidermis. Dark, black liquid moved slowly through visible veins, wormlike in its travel's through his body, grouping around the chest, the stomach, working its way up his neck. A dense concentration of the liquid seemed rooted at three large, bloody, pus-filled lesions along his ribcage.

Helga and the knight stared at this terror until Helga muttered something Gerald didn't hear. "What?" he asked.

She repeated it – but not for him. There was no way for him to understand it anyway, as it was a word from an archaic tongue. The incantation provided the intended effect, however, as the black liquid and its insect-like causatum on his skin contracted, sending the blond boy into convulsions. Here, Helga sprang back into action, ripping at the youth's breeches and tearing them away, doing the same to his under clothes and boots until he lay completely naked on the table.

Gerald was aghast, and would have said something had Helga not suddenly shoved him out of the way. His shock at the girl's actions gave way to understanding the instant he saw the rest of the body – his feet, calves, and thighs – almost the entire lower half of his body – were turning a deep purple-gray, a familiar infection that Gerald shuddered at.

Helga ran out of the room for what seemed like a few seconds, and darted back in carrying a corked gourd. She pulled the cork and hummed more incantations as she upended the gourd, pouring fine, yellow dust over the boy's stricken form.

"What are you going ----" Helga did not stop her chanting, but smoothly thrust her hand at Gerald in a command of silence. Her voice, ringing as if in song, became lower and lower, as she slowly stood on the table and straddled the boy. Then she fell silent. She took out a knife, held it against the palm of her right hand.

At Gerald's gasp, she cast a glance at him over her shoulder. "From now on, total silence." There was no arguing with the emphasis she put on the last two words. Gerald stumbled backward into a nearby chair, intent on obeying.

Without the slightest change in her stoic expression, Helga drew the blade across her palm, slicing open the skin, crimson gushing out of the cut. She brought her hand down on the boy's chest, her blood mixing with the dust in a dark, pink paste. She drew her hand over his ribs, his stomach, arms, legs, all over his nakedness, squeezing her wrist and the sides of her slashed hand to continue the blood flow. She paused, whispering another spell, then cautiously sank first her fingers, then her entire right hand into one of the gaping bite-marks on the rib cage.

She sighed deeply – a sigh that turned into a long hiss, which seemed to Gerald to last a lot longer than one would expect a human to be able to sustain. The hiss became louder and louder, almost a piercing noise which seemed to shake the whole house. The single candle in the room quivered and blew out, the floorboards and rafters groaned. Gerald smashed his palms against his ears as Helga became incandescent in the darkness, an empyrean luminescence shining down on her from an unseen source above, and she lit up, became bodily radiant, almost translucent as the light shone down onto her, into her, through her.

There was another sound, almost as loud as the hissing, a hideous and indescribable sound of some sepulchral miscreation being torn, shredded, mangled into bloody pieces, roaring its defiance. The boy's mouth was open and the sound blasted without, but it was not a human that was making this plaintive noise. Suddenly, the light burst from Helga's body into Arnold's, and the supernormal groan became explosively loud. Gerald folded himself onto the floor, ignoring the pain of his wounds, as he tried to stop the nightmare from dancing in his ears.

And then … silence.

A dim light played across Gerald's eyes, snapped shut to bar the chaos. He opened them to see Helga's angelic face, holding the re-lit candle in her left hand. She held out her right to help him up.

There was no sign of the cut.

"Up, brave Sir Tall Hair," she smiled gently.

A slow grin crept across Gerald's face at the mention of his tribal name, a spiritual appellation given to him at birth by an honored shaman, in a ritual considered noble and venerable for centuries. Only Helga could make it sound like an insult.

The sorceress helped him to his knees, and then wrapped her arm around his shoulder, steadying him to his feet. "How is he?" he asked, as Helga steered him back to his chair.

"He'll be fine," she said. Gerald placed his hands on her shoulders, stopping her. "Helga … thank you. I'm … I'm sorry for having brought him here. I had no choice. I know that you had ---"

"Gerald," she said, and fully embraced him. He threw his arms around her back and held her. It had been far too long between these two friends.

Helga purposefully pulled out of the hug and sat Gerald down. "Stay," she ordered, and lit out of the room again, her loose-fitting gown doing a poor job of hiding her firm, curvaceous body. _Not half the tomboy beanstalk she was as a child_, Gerald mused.

Helga returned shortly with a cache of bottles, sponges and rags, as well as a small stool. Placing her items near Gerald's chair, she pulled out a thick blanket from under her arm, and gingerly placed it over the Arnold's naked body. She then seated herself on the stool, pulled nearer to Gerald, and began working among the potions and powders.

"Off with your stuff. Armor, boots, tunic and undershirt," she said, as she mixed a particularly potent remedy. "And not one complaint about the smell."

Gerald looked perplexed. "What about him?" he asked, with a nod toward Arnold, but still fumbling with his belt and outer garments.

"The hydra's dying," she explained. "The cursed infection coursing through his body. The … Light, let's call it, mortally wounded it. It is a matter of surgery to take it out."

"Why not take it out now?" Gerald, down to his undershirt and breeches, allowed her to lift his shirt and begin to apply the poultice she mixed to his wounds.

"Dying and dead are two different things, Gerald. You ever see a dark hydra? Looks like a jellyfish, tentacles and all. It has latched itself onto his vitals. If I take it out now, I take his innards out as well.

"So," she sighed as she applied more of the curative over the slashes on his muscled chest and lean stomach, "what happened?"

Gerald did not look at her when he spoke. "Balmoral has fallen. The Seed took it. Lord Cyrus is dead."

The slender fingers on Gerald's chest stopped cold. The acerbic wit had abandoned the sorceress, and Helga stared into his emotionless face.

Finally, she said, "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday morning," Gerald intoned.

"You've been riding since yesterday morning?!"

"I didn't know where else to go. Cyrus ordered the city evacuated when the swarm was first sighted. He separated me from my men and told me to find Arnold and get him as far away from Balmoral as possible. When I got to his shop, they were already there, surrounding him."

Her eyes questioned him and Gerald confirmed. "Irg-wraiths. A murder of them. The whole place was all metal teeth and wings and shrieks. I tried to get him out of there, but they bit him before I could kill them all."

Helga continued with the poultice. "It's a wonder he made it this far."

"There was a curate at a temple I stopped at," Gerald continued. "He said some magic words; I guess that's what kept him from succumbing up till now."

"Some magic words, huh?"

He shrugged. "Worlds away from me, witch woman. Anyhow, he said specifically I should bring Arnold here. It killed me to do it … but, he's my friend."

"As am I," she stood up to rub the mixture into the gashes on his shoulders, and around his forehead. "You needn't apologize, Gerald. Despite what experience dictates, I'm actually glad to see you."

Gerald chuckled. It sounded strange to him – it'd been the first time in two weeks that he'd laughed at anything.

The first rumors of the inscrutable creatures of dark magic filtered down into the cities via drunken farmhands and traders, known to be susceptible to even the most incredible legends and stories. The Hill folk were like that. Their religion, medical practices – every aspect of their culture, in fact, was rooted in tall tales and myths. So when they first started chattering about the recently interred dead suddenly jumping up and crowding around the larger villages, their stories were seen as no more than the rambling of yokels. The excited terror in their eyes when they described black clouds of unearthly, winged monsters of all shapes and sizes – the irg-wraiths - bursting forth from the cadaver's rotted trunks served only to make such fiction all the more laughable.

It was barely a year ago when the king sent an expeditionary force to find out why so few traders had come down from the hills in recent months. When that expedition and two others failed to return, Gerald was summoned, along with a company of honored soldiers, to protect the fourth collection of physicians, holy men and scholars sent to investigate the disappearances.

What greeted their eyes was unholy. Villages large and small, deathly silent. Burst and rotting corpses were the only remnants of a populace estimated to be well over 3000 people.

That was but the first - the first they knew of. But more stories would come. Scores of relentless walking dead herding around a populated area, only to erupt, a host of relentless, steel-toothed creatures issuing forth from the ruptured carcass. It was if the bodies served as a vehicle (and possibly a breeding ground, it had been theorized) for the flesh-tearing nightmare seething inside of them.

This terror, it would be revealed, had a name, and even a face. He was called The Seed, and his accursed progeny shared it. What manner of man he was was unknown – whether he was man or malignant spirit was an issue of debate. But it was his cold touch that would instill within a body, living or dead, the hydra.

It was a slimy, black thing that undulated under the skin, taking hold of the organs of the victim. It gained in strength as time passed, gradually killing the mind, taking control of the body itself. From here, it was assumed, the creatures would either grow from the inside, or flock to the body, using it for transport.

It was something Gerald had seen too often now. With great cunning and inscrutable intent, The Seed had spread his monstrous army over two thirds of the kingdom. Great cities were falling one after the other in the space of weeks. The creatures were vulnerable, but formidable, and their numbers were impossible to match. The king's greatest generals, battle-hardened warriors, had made known their fears of the extinction of man to this dread scourge.

Helga began applying bandages to the mixture on the wounds. "Don't touch these, no matter how much they itch. Why did they want Arnold anyway?"

Gerald reached over to his weapons bundle and produced a long, lumpy length of metal. It had been hammered repeatedly in a rough and uneven fashion. If someone had been trying to forge it into something, then the shape of the thing could kindly be called vague, though there was a kind of curving on either side of the piece at one end. Helga shook her head in confusion.

"It's a sword," Gerald said evenly.

"What? That thing?"

Gerald, who was well trained in fencing, halfheartedly tried to hold it in proper defensive fashion. Twice he nearly dropped it due to its uneven weight. "There is something passing as a prophecy that says that a sword forged by the Chosen One will bring about the end of The Seed." He pursed his lips as the weapon-in-progress thudded pathetically to the floor.

"What prophecy?" Helga clucked as she reached down to pick up the unwieldy weapon. "I've never heard of any prophecy like that. I mean, the Seed is new, isn't it?"

The knight shook his tired head. "Not according to the Lumasi."

Helga's face fell into a look of disbelief. "No. No no. You cannot be serious. The _Lumasi_? That ancient, decrepit, discredited pack of frauds?! Arnold is in with them?"

He shook his head. "I don't know anything about that –"

"Stars, I thought he was smarter than that!" she blared as she glanced balefully at the sleeping blonde. "I mean, seriously, I don't know of a single town where they practiced their fakery that didn't run them out with pitchforks! And you're telling me Arnold, that silly, naïve boy, got involved through all this with them? Why did I just heal him? He's too stupid to live!"

"All I know," Gerald added volume to gain control of the conversation, "Is that the Lumasi fellow I talked to – the curate at the temple, that fellow - said that there was some ancient prophecy that told of something like the Seed coming to ---"

" 'Something _like_ the Seed', Tall Hair?"

"_Something like the Seed_, yes, would cast a shadow over the kingdom. Some boy – the Chosen One, over there – would one day forge the sword that would destroy it. Or … him, the cur that leads the beasts." He adjusted himself in his chair, taking the weight off his wounded leg. "Now, I don't believe this anymore than you do. But when I went to get Arnold, the monsters were trying to attack him. He was their focus. If it wasn't for …" he waved his hand at the metallic lump, " … this, then I don't know why.

"I just needed to get him somewhere where he could heal."

Helga said nothing for a long time, just pinched the bridge of her nose, occasionally looking at Arnold, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Gerald sat up.

"Is he going to be alright?" he asked as he began to strap his belt around his tunic.

"With rest and proper food, yes. What are you doing?" She eyed him as he thrust his feet back into his boots.

"Getting dressed," he said with a shrug. "My dearest thanks, for everything. I'd stay longer, but I really have to get back on the road."

She pointed at the blood on his tunic. "On that leg? Are you crazy?"

Gerald gently fitted the rest of his armor over his dressed wounds. "It's a half day's ride to the next town from here. I don't know how close the Seed may be, but I'd have an easier time fighting them if I had a proper militia with me. I figure if I stay on the road for a little while and cut through some of the hills, I may make Redstump in the morning. The magistrate there is a friend of the king. He'll doubtless assemble a company of men to ride with me out to Benomir where I canYAAAAAAAAGH!!!!"

He crumpled as his clutched his leg. "That was just your inner thigh," said Helga, as she lowered her knee. "You want to ride a horse with that?"

"Blast it, woman, what's the matter with you?!" His voice, both strong and weak, rang off the walls. "You can't just up and give a knee to a man's place just to ---"

"Quiet," said Helga. It was neither request nor command. Gerald's eyelids sagged almost immediately. He dropped what clothing he'd not finished donning to the ground. Helga moved to him, gently pushing him, her hand at the small of his back, to her bedroom. With a gesture, she got him to lie down as she again removed his armor, boots, and tunic.

"Sleep," she said. Gerald obediently laid back, closed his eyes, and was asleep. Helga leaned forward, gently kissing his forehead as she walked out, closing the door behind her. She gazed at Arnold on the table before her, weak, helpless, in need.

Stars help her; this was going to be hard.


	2. Chapter 2

The Seed - part 2

by KM Scott

iTo BC Happy Birthday, and have many more!/i

She took no notice of the time crawling by as she went to work on the unconscious Arnold.

It took everything she had in her not to give in to the panic that pounded in her chest as she gently sliced open the three wounds along his ribcage. The surgery itself was nothing new to her; serious, perhaps, but routine, and easy enough now that the necessary magic had been performed to kill the parasitic monster inside.

But the flesh she cut into had a quality about it that made it precious to her. It was, after all, _his_ skin. Arnold's. That silly, thoughtless simpleton who somehow or another got himself involved with the Lumasi, the stale joke of a religious sect who's leaders were exposed as frauds decades before either of them were born.

Apparently through some idiotic misadventure, Arnold must have figured himself responsible for the task of forging a sword. As elegant as his hands were with the paintbrush and the lute, he was no smithy, though he had been adopted by one. And here he was now, out cold, wounded, forcing her into the misery of slicing his skin, delicately reaching into the incision and pulling out the graying body of the tentacled hydra, no longer a threat to anyone.

Doubtless, she reasoned as she pulled the last of the thing's extremities from his chest, oily slime oozing onto the breakfast table where Arnold lay, the doe-eyed fool had nothing to do with the Lumasi. It seemed a credible theory to her that perhaps some raggedy, disheveled mountebank in a monk's robe had approached him about donations to his cause. Maybe the ruse would have involved the ridiculous lump of a sword Arnold had forged. He would have done it out of unthinking, selfless kindness, as he did everything. This time it nearly cost him his life.

"Trusting dolt," she sighed as she massaged his chest, squeezing out the last of the putrid sludge from his body. It would be like this for him, Arnold. Arnold who's charity had actually cost him dearly before. Fool. He was a fool. A lamebrain. An odd-skulled philanthropist-with-empty-pockets who dedicated himself to the thankless and oft-unwelcome task of improving the world around him. She had enough difficulty already in her life, to be sure, but certainly there was room for an idealistic buffoon to come barging in with an evil squid grasping onto his guts! Of course! No trouble at all!

She pointedly began to slow her suturing. Can't let that famous Helga temper get lose while holding a sharp object. But how she HATED him for doing this to her. Invading her life at this delicate time. She loathed, _loathed_ his short-sighted stupidity for what he was causing her! Absolutely _LOATHED HIM FOR IT_!!!

And yet ….

It took an hour for the hydra to die, after she had performed her healing sorcery. Were there some other incantation, magic powder, extreme force of will, or anything else short of a sharp blow to her skull that would have kept her from stroking that soft hair perched on that adoringly almond-shaped head … well, she wouldn't have employed it.

It had been five years since she'd seen him last. Five years since she had made her final decision to stay with the Scinta. It was the most heart-breaking decision she ever made, and it had taken a considerable amount of doing to convince herself it was the right one. Granted, there wasn't much she left behind, but Arnold had been a part of it, a part she had yet to let go.

As the years went by after leaving her hometown, she had thrown herself into her studies. Her thirst for knowledge was uncompromising, and she attempted to drowned herself in the history, philosophy, and magical practices of the Scinta. Her temper and her attitude were calmed over the years, but her spirit and stubbornness made up for that. She was a wonder as a student, a controversial figure whose love of the old ways clashed with her innate curiosity, pushing her ever in search of new and untested magic.

But she was loyal to the order through and through. And that's why she left the boy who was currently asleep on her table.

Or so she thought. So wrapped up in her last few stitches, she hadn't noticed the fingers gently touching the ribbon that hung from the recesses of her long locks.

"I like your ribbon," wheezed a weak voice. "It's pink … like your gown."

Helga considered it fortunate that she was done with her sewing. Otherwise her startled jump may have caused her to accidentally tear the skin further.

"You're awake," she said, working the surprise out of her voice.

"Hello, Helga," Arnold smiled that smile of his. The irresistible smile.

Damn him.

She sat up and walked over to a shelf in the kitchen, poking through various bottles and containers. "You're lucky to be alive, Almond-Head."

A light cough escaped his lips, which she realized was a giggle. "Never knew I'd ever hear you say that again," he adjusted himself on the table, to see her better.

"You almost didn't. Stop moving, I just finished with that wound." She was back at his side again, firmly moving him back into position. She had brought over some of the mixture she had used earlier on Gerald, and was mixing it again.

"I can't remember what happened," said Arnold as she began to apply the poultice. "I think I was attacked by something. An animal. I can't remember …"

"And you shouldn't bother." She gently took his chin with sticky fingers. "You need rest, boy. You should go back to sleep."

He blinked at her for a second. Took a breath. Smiled the smile again. "You look so beautiful, Helga."

Helga removed her hand. She looked at her poultice mix, back to Arnold, his wounds, the poultice. What was it about this boy and those five silly words that caused her, a respected and feared sorceress, such consternation as to what she should be looking at?

She settled on the poultice. Good enough. "You've been poisoned for a day and a half. You're exhausted and incoherent. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Well," he said as he lifted his arm, "If that's the case, then I can't be blamed for my behavior."

He started caressing her face. And not simply caressing it, but with his knuckles, up from her chin and slowly towards her temple. Just how she loved it.

She grabbed his hand to stop him, but she already knew what would happen next, and indeed, he twisted his hand in hers so that their fingers were intertwined. He may have been weak and a fool, but he wasn't entirely unclever. She prepared a volley of sharp words to hurl at him when, as she should have predicted, his other hand was at her wrist, gently dragging its fingers up and down her forearm – the _other_ thing she loved.

Only Arnold would do these things. Only Arnold knew to do these things.

Damn him!

The flood of anger she was to unleash upon him had suddenly evaporated, and she struggled to find the strength to say "Stop."

Arnold stopped. Not because of a demand or a spell, but because she said stop. Many a man throughout the countryside would find that word incitement to continue, or cause to beat his intended conquest for resisting. Arnold stopped because she said so. That was what made him Arnold.

He did not drop her hand, however.

"Helga," he whispered, "do you think about me?"

"Why would I think about you?" she asked. The question would have carried more weight if she hadn't stuttered so when saying it.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said. His eyes never wandered from her face. "I heard you lived in Swallow's Cry. Is that where we are?"

"Yes," she continued to rub the poultice, maybe more than there needed to be, on his wound.

"I heard there was a famine out here. Remember? About ... what, a year or two ago? I wanted to ride out, but we were so busy at the shop." He glanced around the room. "Was there a famine?"

"There was. I got along. It was some of the nearby villages that suffered, but they're still here, too."

Arnold closed his eyes. "Good," he said. "Balmoral had it pretty bad too. I felt kind of selfish."

She began to cut bandages to place over the mixture. "Why?"

"I dunno," he replied. "It's just that I was surrounded by all these hungry people. I would try to get them grain and salt and water, but I kept thinking about you, getting something out to you the whole time. But, you're a sorceress. You could take care of yourself."

"Yes I can," she responded.

"But, I guess I need to tell you …" and here, he leaned forward, much to Helga's protesting hands. "…I'll never stop worrying about you, Helga. Never."

Helga put her hands on the table, a look of restrained frustration snapping over her face. "Arnold …." she started.

She did not finish. Before either of them knew it, her mouth was at his, their breaths mingling, their tongues dancing in a rhythm that was as familiar to them as it was five years ago, when everything she and Arnold did was in concert, of two hearts.

Those hearts were pounding as she gently eased him back down onto the table, her passion attacking his as they kissed like fire and oxygen. He grasped her torso as they broke the kiss, burying his face into her neck, squeezing her sides like a prize in a grip of strength that was every bit as powerful as his longing for her.

At once rapturous and gentle, Helga wrapped a hungry arm around his shoulders, clutching and petting his head as she relished the feel of his body, the taste of his skin and the scent of his hair. Well, it wasn't his scent; it was the scent of the soap she had used to clean his hair. It smelled amazing on him.

He grunted something into her chest and she knew at once it was her name. He said it over and over as he nuzzled her heartbeat.

"Arnold …" she said again.

-------------------------------------------

She was found in the foothills of Leith, scratched, bloodied, but otherwise healthy. She had a unibrow back then, the characteristic common among the Gathi nomads. Her tribe had been on their bi-annual trek to Balmoral to participate in the renowned county fair. Her father, a loud and boisterous boor, fancied himself Prince of All Merchants, and often ruminated on leaving the tribe and staying in the capitol permanently.

The day's journey through Leith had barely begun when the bandits had swooped down upon them. Helga, only six at the time, was caught directly underneath an overturned wagon. Surrounded in darkness and unable to move, she could only listen to the screams of her people, the begging of her father, as the bloodthirsty bastards cut them all down. Not a soul was left alive.

She had stayed there for two days. A fortuitous broken plank in the wagon fed her air, and the trash that had devastated her tribe was in too much of a hurry to check everything. As the third day dawned, the first drops of an emerging rainstorm announced itself with its slow tap-tap-tapping, bursting into a growing fury after a short few minutes. The ground beneath her became muddy, and in her young mind, a sharp new fear of drowning was sparked.

Then she heard the hoof beats.

Something - someone - was approaching. There were a number of them, for she heard many voices. Men, women, shouting orders, picking through what the bandits left behind, and though the rain beat a relentless, chaotic rhythm against the floor of the wagon, she could hear those voices coming closer.

The world around her rumbled, and then there was light. A large, bulky man with deep set eyes and arms like tree trunks had lifted the wagon up in the air with all the exertion of changing a bedsheet. He gawked at the little girl in surprise.

She was weak and beaten, starving and exhausted. In the days to come, she would ponder where she had found the strength to leap at the man, and how she had managed to get ahold of a knife.

Of course, she was no challenge for him - Green, a butcher who lived in Balmoral county - and with the same large, beefy hands he disarmed her with, he held her close to his chest, less out of comfort, more out of an attempt to keep her from getting free. He felt like her father, she would recall.

Upon her arrival at Balmoral, she was swiftly taken to the local healer, a sweet-natured drunkard named Mother Miriam. Helga could smell the fruity wine on her breath as she managed to string together some sort of greeting, before turning her over to Olga, her statuesque young daughter.

Olga. If ever there was a more forcefully genteel and winsome person on the face of the planet, Helga never wanted to meet her. In fact, the little girl had come to regret meeting Olga fairly quickly. Her lilting voice was like spun sugar, as soft as her golden hair and unblemished, alabaster skin. It was enough to cause vomit fits.

She and Miraim watched Helga like mother hens while a courier was sent to find a Gathi tribe that would take her. None would. Thanks largely to her father, The Pahtachi clan was not a popular clan amongst the nomads, to put it kindly, and her singular eyebrow had been regarded as a cursed mark anyway. At nine years old, Helga had no home and no family.

It was with grudging acceptance, and eventual gratitude, that she gradually began to take to her new and unexpected mother and sister - or, as Olga would gently insist, "Big Sister" to her "Little Sister". It was through Mother Miriam, after all, that she learned of the way of the Scinta; the death of her husband in a logging accident inspired her love of drink, whereas her dabbling in the practices of the ancient order kept her from becoming a total drunk. It meant foregoing men, which was of little concern to her, after she lost Hyun.

They provided a home for her, warm in the winter, with good food and clean clothes. They provided her with quill and parchment, and she had learned to read and write six languages by the time she was 12. Her mind was a library of ancient songs and stories that told the history of Emir, and a vast repository of formulas and recipes for potions and elixirs both archaic and new.

What they could not provide, and could never hope to, was a sense of security. Helga was scarred by the insane fury she'd seen the day her tribe was slaughtered. Everything she'd ever known was gone, and in the void left behind where peace of mind would be, a spiteful and plotting anger was born. She had gained a reputation among the other children in town as a bully and a witch, the latter earned from the prevalent prejudice against gypsies such as her.

The Bremanian boy, Gerald Tall Hair Johvis, from Hillwood, would make up the most insane stories about her drinking blood and turning others into newts. That stupid, fat-headed son of the butcher Harold was constantly trying to insult her, a feat made all the more difficult considering he always had food in his mouth. That ... _insufferable_ ... daughter of a local merchant, Rhonda, betrothed, as she was constantly reminding them, to a lord of a lower house. They made sure to make every day for her miserable.

Of course, it wasn't always so terrible, not with all of them. Often, Mother Bliss would come to visit Mother Miriam, bringing along a girl who'd been orphaned, just like her. Phoebe was a welcome friend to Helga, a kind and gentle girl willing to lend an ear when something was tearing at her heart. She was no pushover, however, oh no. Gerald and Harold both would live to understand that.

And then there was Arnold. A young boy who lived with the smithy. Helga often wondered if some terrible curse had fallen upon the children of Balmoral, or if it had been limited to the three of them - for Arnold had lost his parents too, only to far more mysterious circumstances. Of all the children that caused Helga to endure pain every day, Arnold was without question the worst.

He did not insult her, however. He did not make up stories about her, throw rocks or call her names. Arnold was, without question, one of the most kindest and self-sacrificing boys ever born. His hooded eyes and encouraging grin had made him welcome in every corner of the town, including some of the royal houses. His was a disarming personality, and he had overcome even the curmudgeonliest residents with his gentle words, tireless helping hands and irrepressible attitude.

Helga hated him.

The world of pain and horror that she had suffered found no logic in his loving behavior, and, for reasons she would not be able to fathom if she had questioned herself, she unleashed wrath on him on a near-daily basis. Certainly, she was brutal towards the other children of the town, but it was with Arnold that she took particular pride in her focused and relentless tormenting. Name-calling, arm-punching and hair-pulling soon gave away to more supernormal damages upon her learning of the Scinta practices.

Cursing him with an all-day skunk spell had been fun, but tearing his breeches from a distance was a favorite. Pelting him with spitballs from every angle at once, causing him to swat furiously at the air in the middle of town square, had been worked out to a science by the time they had hit their early teenage years.

Puberty ran in fast, and with it came a shocking revelation, as Helga, then fourteen, a scholar and sorceress in her own right, was mixing an especially nasty potion up for her hapless target. Grinning and snickering through her plot, the obtrusive Olga had come into her room (failing to knock, once again), startling Helga while adding a crucial and particularly sensitive element to the mix.

The explosion could be heard from the other side of town.

As Mother Bliss worked her magic over Helga, whose angry scowl could still be made out even as her pinkish, swirling form bubbled in the cauldron she'd been scooped into, she'd asked Helga why she'd even think of using such a dangerous potion on someone who meant her no harm.

"I wasn't going to use _that _mix on him," Bliss was able to make out through all the bubbling and popping. "I was going to use a modified one - just for his clothes."

Bliss raised an eyebrow. "You were going to liquefy his clothes?"

"Yeah, well, I guess ..." burble glub pop. "I didn't mean any harm. It's just that stupid Olga came in without knocking - again! - and ruined everything."

"I wouldn't be so quick to blame this on her, Helga," said Bliss, who had begun administering powders into the cauldron. "You had no business at all trying to use this potion, as you can plainly see. And you've yet to answer my question: Why would you do this to Arnold? What has he done to you?"

A quiet separation of chemicals had commenced in the cauldron. Water had begun to separate from the pink liquid, which was becoming increasingly flesh-toned. "Uh .... I don't know ..." said Helga. Whatever she said next was lost to Bliss, as a flurry of bubbles and gurgles obscured Helga's words.

It was not lost to Helga, however, who continued her reasoning, unaware of Bliss' inability hear her: She despised his ridiculous attitude about life, about how _things are only as bad as you see them_, or some such nonsense. Life was bad - an ugly, torturous, miserable collection of meaninglessly painful horrors that you endured until you thankfully, mercifully, died. Perhaps if he knew the tragedy she knew of losing her family, perhaps his thinking would be a little more ....

... well, no, no. He had lost his family. Of course. But that wasn't the same thing. Somehow. He was stupid. And that was the difference. She was smart and he was stupid. She was better than him, far better, and would live a much happier life if he wasn't there to constantly torment her with his stupid happiness, his useless optimism. Oh, how much more pleasurable life would be is she didn't have to see his kind face, his warm smile, to never have to deal with his LEAPING into every situation where he thought he might be able to help, like the time the Lorenzo brothers had tried to ...

... they hurt him pretty badly for that, too. He almost lost a tooth. Served him right for interfering with something she could handle. What business was it of his anyway? Why did he care? No one else did! Why did he care?!

_How_ could he care?

How could he care about her? She wasn't nice, kind, or even thoughtful. She was everything dark and angry, a vengeful and violent person who would pursue her tormentors to the ends of the earth for vindication! She had no soul, just a black and terrible thing that kept her going. He had no place to care for her. And there was no place in her to care for him. None. She did not care for him. She did not.

That night, when she woke up at three bells, mostly solid and with nary a hair on her head, her maturing mind finally understood. She had lied to herself. There was room to care for Arnold. It was the reason why she focused on him so.

When Mother Bliss brought the boy by later that day, completely without warning, Helga found out just how big her lie had been.

"He came over to help rebuild your room," said Bliss, pushing Arnold forward. He couldn't see her smirk for staring at Helga.

Helga realized that Arnold was not seeing the traditional, scowling Helga, but a pail, somewhat translucent Helga with no hair. Her brow would've raised in surprise if it were there.

"Uhr, Arnold ..." she stammered. "I was just ...."

"I like your ribbon," he said.

_Ribbon? _ She glanced at her neck, wrists, body. No ribbon, just a pink gown covered with a robe. She opened her mouth to say "What ribbon?"

She didn't get the chance. Arnold gently reached forward and gingerly touched the pink ribbon that was dangling from the side of her head. She felt a gentle pulling, as if the ribbon was attacked directly to her skin.

Mother Bliss grimaced sheepishly. "Did everything I could with that separation spell. Couldn't pull out the ribbon, though."

Helga wasn't paying attention. She'd been fingering the lace, feeling the slight tug on the side of her skull, before she accidentally brushed Arnold's hand. She pulled away.

" ... it's pink, like your gown," he complimented.

-------------------------------------------

Helga slowly began rocking Arnold in her arms, deeply drinking in the moment. She would have to let him go, let him lie back on the table. He had to sleep, to heal, and she could not be touching a man right now, she knew that.

But he was obviously not ready to let go of her, and she was not going to force him. She just listened quietly to the soft wheezing of his breath, which seemed to become less forced minute by minute ….

******

_Hey, folx!_

_Okeydoke, this here's part 2 of The Seed, a gift AU HA! (bless you) fic for Blonde Cecille. I meant to get this done much earlier and in two parts only, but it just got bigger and bigger! It became so long, in fact, that I had to even partition part 2!_

_That's right! What you see above isn't even complete in its truncation! Ah, BC, what powers have you over mortal man that you can summon a great, walloping tale with merely a "Hey Arnold with swords" prompt?!_

_Again, happy birfday. More to come!_

_Oh, and _**Ichigo** _- Thanks for the comments! You rock!_


	3. Chapter 3

**The Seed – Part 3**

**by KM Scott**

_To BC – Happy Birthday and many more!_

"Where's Gerald?" Arnold asked, gently nuzzling the incomparable softness under his cheek. Helga, situated on the table with the wounded boy's head on her stomach, smirked at him.

"You're thinking of him? Maybe you've lost too much blood, Almond-head."

Arnold closed his eyes and savored the appellation. It was a name that harkened back to their childhood, from a time when she was absolutely merciless to him. Her attitude toward him had changed over the years, obviously, but the name stuck. The sting had worn off, and he'd become comfortable with it. Today, right now, it was music.

The impact of seeing Helga for the first time in five years hit him so viscerally as to seem almost physical. His eyesight hadn't really fully returned until a few minutes after he fully woke – her very scent played havoc with his senses after the cold, empty black finally drained out of his world, freeing his conscious mind from the formless nightmare that infected him more than a day earlier. He felt warmth, peace, and excitement, a potent combination of emotions that he knew could only be elicited by the gypsy girl he'd come to feel so strongly for.

"He's in the bedroom," Helga answered. "I don't know how much you saw, but he was pretty badly injured. But, Monsieur Born-of-the-Blade just _had _to ride out to Redstump, or somewhere, and form a militia or something."

"How'd you get him to stay?"

"Sleeping spell," she chuckled. "One does not argue with Helga Pahtachi."

Arnold growled in satisfaction and nuzzled her again. She ran her hand along his face, his forehead, relishing his feel and promoting his comfort. She absently felt the little bald spot just at the peak of his natural part in the center of his head, gingerly tracing the scar, long since healed, which remained.

"Where's your cap? That blue one?"

He shrugged, his lack of strength making the gesture an effort. "Must've lost it back in Balmoral." He opened his eyes. His face began to slowly fall. "Balmoral …"

Helga gently enfolded him her arms. "Sh-shh, now, now," she whispered maternally. She could feel Arnold's chest shudder with a sob, which was answered with a spasm as he reacted in pain from the fresh sutures on his side. "Quiet, now, Arnold. Calm your soul…"

There was a jumbled mass of dark and bloody images flooding into his mind's eye, confusing and horrid, barely-remembered yet unforgettable memories of slaughter, terror, and pain. The shock of what he had seen, of the ordeal he himself had endured, coupled with the missing patches of memory, made for a waking nightmare. It was just as these terrible thoughts began to assault him that they quickly were subdued – not gone away, necessarily; rather, it was if they had been transported – i_shoved/i_ – somewhere into his subconscious, a distant rumbling in his mind.

He lay staring at nothing as he emerged from the murky depths of his faded anguish. Then he glanced at Helga.

"Did you…?"

Helga nodded. "I … I couldn't see you in pain. It'll wear off, I promise."

Arnold weakly smiled. She hadn't used a full-on forgetfulness spell on him, at least. "What bit me?" he asked wistfully.

"An irg-wraith. And you need to stop thinking about it."

"Is it out? The squid thing?" he craned his head to look at his sutures. Feminine hands gently pulled him back down on their owner's stomach.

"Of course it is. You're very fortunate Gerald brought you in time. He's a brave man."

Arnold nodded. "None braver."

"Yes," she began stroking his hair, "and I've heard him tell me a story. A story about a very silly youth, head shaped like an almond, what got himself involved with a clan of charlatans. You hear anything like that?"

He looked up at her. "What, now?"

Helga looked to the ceiling in mock recollection. "Some band of fools called the Lumasi. Exposed as frauds years ago, yes indeed. One of these bumblesomes apparently told this lost fawn that he was some sort of mystical blacksmith. That he was supposed to forge a sword that would … oh, I don't know, really, save the world or something." She fixed a stare at him. "Any of this sound familiar?"

Arnold only stared back at her, perplexed, until the memory slowly dawned on him. "Uh … well, there was a fellow who came to town about two weeks ago. He was … I think he was going to work at the temple. A curate, or something." He adjusted his head for comfort. "Yeah. He had said that a sword was needed to fulfill a prophecy."

"What sort of prophecy?"

He shrugged. "Oh, the standard type."

She raised an eyebrow. "The 'standard type' of prophecy? What does that mean? What was it?"

"It was a while ago, Helga, I don't remember. Not the whole thing."

"Then what do you remember?" she insisted.

Arnold sighed. "That … he … he presented me with some kind of cloth, a holy text on cloth or something. He said that he needed a special sword. I said that I lived with a blacksmith and that he should come by and see our place."

"And?" Helga pressed.

"Well," he continued, "he looked through our stock and said that they were all great blades, but we didn't have the one he needed. He told me it had to be specially made to fulfill the prophecy. Father was reluctant to make it-"

And here, Arnold's voice fell as Helga's eyes narrowed. "So … so, I, uh … I thought I'd make it myself. Fifteen years around a smithy," he grinned a sheepish grin, "that should've taught me something."

He could see the myriad emotions running through her eyes. Having been used to the fire and passion (especially recently) that usually stormed forth from the woman, he was quite surprised when her next words were spoken in a restrained, almost _motherly_, tone.

"Arnold," she started slowly, "why do you suppose your father didn't forge the man a sword?" Arnold opened his mouth to say something, but she continued. "He didn't make the sword because he knew the man was a charlatan. A brigand. Some holy man comes talking about a prophecy, convinces some gullible simpleton into doing what he wants him to do, and when said simpleton performs this service, what happens?"

Again, Arnold's response was lost to Helga's apparently rhetorical conversation. "Understand that when I say 'gullible simpleton', I don't mean your father. He's smart. He knows that the priests and the sorceresses control the courts. Bringing a holy man in front of a judge – even if it's a scheming Lumasi – is about as smart as punching a lion in the face. You'd lose. You'd spend all that time making a sword, and then you'd get nothing in return for it. Your father's steel, his tools, time he could have spent on paying customers - all used and wasted, and for what?"

"Look, Helga …" Arnold started to argue, but the cogs were turning in his head. He sank a little, even as he was lying down. Helga's maternal approach seemed to be working.

"He … he said he needed a sword. I just wanted to help," said Arnold, quietly.

Helga smiled a small smile. "You always do, Almond-head. You always do."

"Why do they want me? The Seed – why are they chasing me?" Arnold asked. Helga shrugged. "I don't think they do, Arnold. I think Sir Tall-Hair was taken up in the excitement and figured you were being chased, instead of just attacked like everyone else in town. He's a brave man, to be sure, but …" she looked at him conspiratorially "… he does have his superstitious side."

Arnold considered this. "Yeah. Yeah, well … _after Phoebe_…"

Helga smirked in agreement. Then her face fell. "Phoebe …" A slow and unwelcome mood took her, unnoticed by Arnold, and her shoulders sank as a sad realization dawned upon her mind.

He glanced into her blue eyes again. "So, what happens now?"

"Well," said Helga, as she maneuvered out from under him, "now you get some rest. And be ready for a big breakfast tomorrow. You need to build up your strength."

She produced a downy pillow and placed it under his head. "Thanks," he cooed, "but this isn't as nice as the other one."

"The other one needs her sleep, too," she said as she turned to her kitchen. She stopped short when he seized her hand in his. "Helga," he implored, "What's next?"

She hesitated. "It depends on what Gerald wants to do. If he's healed up enough to ride, then perhaps he can find a safehaven for both of you –"

"That's not what I mean and you know it," he firmly cut in, pumping her hand in emphasis.

"Let's say I don't," she replied evenly. Arnold attempted to sit up, but couldn't find the strength. His hold on her hand, however, remained.

"Will you come with us?" he asked, and then, with a deeper passion, "Will you come with me?"

Helga fell silent, an action unfamiliar to her. It was ironic, funny, and amazing to her, how much this man had come to mean to her over the years.

She pulled her hand away.

"You can't ask me to do that, Arnold Klyner. And you know that."

He blinked at her, confused. "But … but I thought after …"

"After what?" she said, turning away from him to straighten the room. "After our little meeting on the table there? Alright. I'll say I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Arnold," she turned towards him, gathered some potions, then quickly turned back to avoid seeing his reaction.

"I was being a tease and a temptress. I should've just healed you and been done with it. I enflamed something in you and I'm sorry. It's just best that you go back to sleep and forget about this."

Arnold shrank where he was on the table, the bliss on his face totally wiped away and replaced by a look of stunned pain. "I don't understand," came his whispered reply.

"You do," said Helga, "because I made it clear to you five years ago." She stood to her full height, hands on hips to emphasize her point – though she still avoided looking him in the eye. "I am a priestess of the Scinta. I foreswore carnal connections when I took my oath. I told you that Arnold; I told you what would happen if you didn't make a decision. And you didn't. So I had to make my own."

Arnold, for all he had to endure over the course of his young life, was not a bitter man, but here, in the home of the one who he'd dreamt of for years – here, he found himself biting back bile and rage. Words he'd tried never to use in polite company came flooding to his mind, words spitefully blasting the twisted old crones who founded the Scinta sisterhood. Words about the silly, stupid, inhuman notion of denying oneself love due to the superstition and fear of 'losing the magic', or whatever the hell they called it.

Words about how he wasn't ready for marriage five years ago. Especially when Helga was so dedicated to the destruction of those who'd butchered her tribe years ago. But now, now it was different. Now, things had changed. And she was saying it was too late.

Striving against his emotions, he kept his words brief. "I'd heard about the bandits."

Helga blinked. "You … what?"

Arnold sat up straight, grunting under the strain. "I said I heard about the bandits. Grand Vahrsus and his blood clan."

Helga held her position, but something about her changed, faltered a bit at the mention of the name. Grand Vahrsus was nothing more than a standard, bearded, bloated animal, the leader of a clan of bandits that one would hear about and promptly forget, as they were nothing more than thugs that assaulted tiny merchant convoys, their strength coming more from numbers than skill.

One day, more than twenty years ago, Helga's family was in one of those convoys.

She'd nurtured a hatred of the murdering bastard ever since she'd learned his name, something Mother Bliss had tried to keep from happening. But it was inevitable, and she had dedicated part of her life to finding him and his bandits, and destroying him.

It was blood for blood, of course – vengeance was a part of it, how couldn't it be? – but it would also benefit the common good. No child would be left without family because of Vahrsus ever again.

There was nothing in her life that would sway her from her mission. Or so she thought. As her feelings grew stronger for Arnold, she found that, upon reaching her early twenties, on the verge of becoming a priestess, she had come to a crossroads. She could either pursue the path of the Scinta, which would empower her to destroy Vahrsus, or bond herself to the love of her life.

He was not ready, he told her. And she waited. But she couldn't wait long. And so, under the tutelage of Mother Bliss, she chose to join the Scinta, to eradicate Vahrsus.

And she had succeeded.

"He's gone, Helga," said Arnold. "He's never coming back again – you made sure of that. You don't have to live this life anymore."

She and gave him a hard stare. "You presume to tell me what kind of life I can live years after you left it? This is my life, Arnold, the life I'm proud of, that I've lived the way I've wanted. You could've been part of it, but you chose against that."

"Helga, things are different now!" he'd nearly yelled, but his voice failed him. "I'm different…." he paused to catch his breath. "I need you."

Helga shook her head. "No, Arnold, I don't think so. I think that you're tired and randy. And that you need to find yourself a proper wife." Her voice wavered a bit as she began blowing out candles. "Most importantly, you need sleep."

Arnold scooted forward in attempt to get off the table, to walk to her. "Helga, listen-"

"Sleep," said Helga. She'd moved into position to catch him as he fell backward, dead to the world. She gently lay him down on the pillow and covered him with a blanket, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead.

That part of her life was over, had been over for years. And it was self-destructive to delude herself into believing otherwise. She blew out the rest of the candles and settled into a chair at the back of the room, away from the sleeping Arnold.

The tears began to flow only after she had covered herself with the comforter.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Seed – Part 4  
by KM Scott**

_To BC – Happy Birthday and many more!_

It was a feeling that had become almost foreign to him, waking in a bed with a down mattress and welcoming comforter, no protruding rocks or clumps of dirt digging into his back. The words "… kick a man in his place" were still on his lips as Gerald stirred to waking, warm in the embrace of Helga's bed. His soldier's conditioning urged him to get up and take to the road, but Helga's sleeping spell had done its job – the sun was already up. His pre-dawn traditions of exercise before a light breakfast would've been skipped anyway. He had to get out to Redstump. Ah, well.

The light tingling around various parts of his body reminded him of the gentleness which he had to treat the poultices which Helga had applied the night before, to the wounds on his forehead, his chest, his arms, his …. his inner thigh. He grinned a sly grin after a quick inspection proved that, yes, in fact, she had attended to it also. Well, well.

_A gentlemen should not ruminate on such things_, he rebuked himself.

There was little time to do so, anyway. The road ahead of him was long, if he was going to make it to Redstump before nightfall, and he had to get started. He quickly dressed and left the room, walking right into possibly the most glorious smell he'd ever encountered.

The kitchen of Helga's little cottage was a mess, littered with pots, pans, spices and the detritus of chopped vegetables and fruits. The mix in the air was of honey and salt, eggs and cakes. At the kitchen table sat Helga and Arnold, contentedly munching away at the virtual buffet Helga had laid out: a delectable collection of scrambled things, fruit plates, and an absolutely unavoidable meat stew.

Gerald worked some quick calculations in his head. He would not make Redstump by nightfall.

A warm pair of eyes met his, and Arnold's soft features brightened when his friend entered. "Gerald," he said, his voice a chuckle. Gerald sauntered over and grabbed his friend in a bear hug, and an enthusiastic gasp escaped his friend's mouth.

"Didn't know if I'd see you again, boy," said Gerald.

"If you wish me to charge you extra for a new set of stitches, then by all means, squeeze the boy harder," said Helga as she sipped some steaming tea. "I've long been thinking of adding another room to this cottage."

Gerald reflexively drew his arm away from Arnold's sides. "It's alright, old horse," said Arnold. "I'm fine. She did amazing work."

"As always," Helga shrugged. Gerald grabbed a nearby plate and began to fill it, taking a seat at the table. "Oh, and please, make yourself to home. No need to wait for invitation. Just eat my food. Please."

"I shall grant your wish, witch woman," said Gerald, half a roll already stuffed in his mouth. "This feast of yours will serve as a proper apology for making me late." He searched for a fork. As if on its own volition, one floated over by his hand, only to dart out of the way when he reached for it. He glanced at Helga, who cocked her brow at him.

"What? What do you want?" she said, feigning innocence.

Gerald smirked, grabbing handfuls of food and pressing it in his mouth. "Nuffim."

Arnold wiped his fork on a cloth napkin and handed it to his friend. "She made you late? Late to what?"

"Sir Tall Hair here seems to think that he can up and ride all the way to Redstump with a leg wound that just about tore his thigh open and threatened his future generations," Helga said. Arnold glanced at Gerald's breeches in curiosity. "I don't see anything."

"I did," said Helga, sipping another sip of tea.

Gerald wiped his grin. "You're welcome, my dear."

Arnold looked confused. "Uh …. What does that mea-"

"The point is," Gerald continued, "that leg wound or no, I _have_ to get to Redstump . They need to know what's happening. I don't recall any messengers being dispatched, and if they were, there's no way of knowing they've made it. Arnold and I are the only ones to make it this far, otherwise someone would have joined us by now." He solemnly poured himself a cup of juice. "The people of Redstump should at least have the chance to evacuate."

Helga eyed him. "What about the whole militia thing you were talking about last night? Don't tell me I talked some sense into you."

Gerald shook his head. "You're good, Witch Woman, but not that good. I was tired last night. That's all. After what I'd seen at …" his voice left him. Gerald settled his hands at the table, suddenly disinterested in the meal.

Arnold meekly spoke up, his voice still tired from the insanity of the last few days. "Did … did anyone make it out? Anybody? Lanza, Nadine, Harold? Anyone?"

The evacuating crowds were at the city walls when some of the bigger monsters had brought the structure down on top of them. Arnold could barely see anyone from his perspective in the blacksmith shop, fighting the irg-wraiths – but he never had any doubt about their survival. That part of the town was their past, their childhood. Now it was all red dust.

Gerald thought for a second about how to break the truth of the bloody ordeal to his dear friend.

"Nadine was alright," he lied. He'd heard from someone who heard from someone who heard from Syd, the thieving pottery-maker, that Nadine might have not been killed. This was after he borrowed her horse, so he had no idea.

Arnold's face fell. He shook his head slowly as he closed his eyes.

"Arnold?" said Helga.

"This is all …" he sobbed, then started again, "Is this all because of me? Did I do this?"

Gerald's eyes focused on his friend. "No, Arnold. Not at all."

"This is all because of me and that awful sword," he moaned. Gerald leaned forward, but Helga had already moved to his side, gripping his hand in support.

"Arnold, we talked about this. This is _not_ your fault. You had nothing to do with this. This is all some silly mistake. You can't blame yourself for this." She handed him another cloth as tears started streaming down his face.

"They got Eugene," he whispered. His voice caught as he tried to choke back the pain as he spoke. "H-he was the sweetest, kindest man in the whole town. Everybody loved him. Then those things … th-they bit him, and he …."

At a temporary loss for her reservations, Helga held him, gently running her hands over the hair of his oddly-shaped, endearing head. Gerald rested his chin on his folded hands, looking at nothing. Eugene. If it hadn't been for Eugene, the smithy's son, Gerald wouldn't have known where to find Arnold. He risked everything to get into the shop and call for Arnold in the morass, and in return, he was mauled by the bastard creatures. Despite the danger, Gerald couldn't help pulling the poor soul into a secluded corner.

"Don't worry, I'm okay," Eugene had said. And as his eyes began to glaze, as he began to cough up blood, Gerald heard the hideous shriek of the irg-wraiths coming nearer. He had to go. He had to leave a childhood friend to die.

Gerald may have been the last to see Eugene alive.

The knight cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "We have to figure out what to do with Arnold."

By now, Arnold had gotten his sniffling under control. "Beg pardon?"

Gerald steepled his fingers on the table, laying out an invisible argument. "The Seed is after you. Helga's right, it is not your fault, but what does that matter in light of the fact that you're being chased by a legion of monsters led by a madman?"

"Were you going to take him?" Helga asked, taking her seat again.

"I don't know," said Gerald. "I had thought about dropping him at Windermeer. I have family out there. My sister, you remember her."

Arnold nodded. "Yeah, Timberly. But we can't go out there. I mean, I can't. That would draw the Seed to your family. I can't do that, Gerald."

"My family is a family of soldiers and protectors," said Gerald. "They're prepared to fight to the death for you."

"Then they have prepared well," said Helga. "Think of it, Yovahnsenn. If our capital fell to the Seed, how well would the people of Windermeer handle an onslaught from those things? I mean, come on, Windermeer? The City on the Plains? Population 700?"

"We wouldn't have to keep him in the city itself. There are places to outside on the outskirts," Gerald quickly said.

"They'd find him," Helga intoned with finality.

"I'm not going anyway. I'm not endangering anyone else," said Arnold. Not as definitively as Helga, perhaps, but it was inarguable.

"Alright," said Gerald. "That leaves Redstump. But I would not be able to keep an eye on him. I would need help with that."

Helga's eyes narrowed, a look that Gerald had thought he'd be able to avoid with his clever act. Apparently his concept of the depth of his cleverness needed to be reevaluated.

"So," Helga began, "you rode from Balmoral to here, so affixed to the task of getting Arnold to my home that, for almost two straight days, you never considered what may happen to him once he was healed?"

Gerald shrugged his shoulders, less to appear innocent than to shake off the increasing weight of the inefficacy of his cheap ruse. "I honestly didn't know if he was going to survive. You saw him."

Helga's eyes flared. "I did. And I saw your face last night when you brought him. And I know that you wouldn't have brought him to me if you thought he wouldn't make it. Do you think me a fool, Gerald?"

Arnold had already put his hands up in a futile gesture of peace. "Hey, hey, let's not get carried away here. What am I missing? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong," responded Helga, not taking her eyes off of Gerald, "is that this selfish ingrate came to me to not merely heal you, but to babysit you in Redstump."

"Babysit …" said Arnold, nonplussed.

"Helga …" Gerald began.

But she would have none of it. "Just how much of my life do you seek to disrupt, Yovahnsenn? Do you pretend not to know how difficult this is for me? For Arnold? Or don't you care?"

"Obviously I care," Gerald defended, "that's why I brought him here. Honestly, Helga, I didn't know who else to turn to. That is the absolute truth."

"And when were you going to tell me that you wanted me to nursemaid him?" she growled. She quickly picked up her dishes and began to toss them into a wash tub. Gerald stood.

"Helga …"

"All you had to do was ask me, Gerald."

He crossed his arms. "And if I'd asked, what would you have said?"

"No," she replied without hesitation. "I would've said no, Gerald. But at least, when you left my house, you would've done so without feeling like you tried to take advantage of a friend. If that matters anything to you."

Gerald opened his mouth to say something, but Arnold was suddenly up, getting in between the two. "All right, enough, both of you!" His voice, thought scratchy and week, somehow had found a commanding anger. He hobbled to Helga and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Helga, Gerald didn't-" he held her firmly as she tried to pull away. She sighed and stopped. "Gerald didn't mean to hurt you. He was just doing his best to protect me. He's just too crafty for his own good, is all. He came to the person he thought would take care of me best, and that was you. He cared too much for me to risk you saying no, right? And he thought too much of you to bring me to anyone else. See?" He turned to Gerald. "Right, Gerald?"

Gerald, having barely comprehended the meaning of Arnold's quick flurry of words, said "Yes, of course."

Helga's head fell. "Almond-head … it isn't you …" she pulled out of his grasp, albeit gently. "I just can't do this right now."

Arnold took her hand, another grip which she slowly pulled out of. "Of course not. I understand. It's all alright."

He turned away from her, a look of pleading in his face as he regarded Gerald. It was all the knight could do to keep from sighing.

"I'm sorry, Helga." The sorceress's back was turned as she slowly cleaned her dishes. She said nothing.

"Helga …" said Gerald, after a pause. "You have a beautiful house."

The clanking of dishes stopped as she craned her neck to try and see Gerald's point.

"You have a fine house here, and amazing powers, and a wonderful life. And I rode right into it and brought you trouble without thinking. Now, Arnold is one hundred per cent correct: I came to you because you are the absolute best there is in sorcery," he approached her back. "But I should have asked about tending to Arnold at Redstump. I was wrong. I am sorry."

Helga was quiet. She wiped something off her cheek and then turned to him. "How sorry?"

Gerald raised eyebrows. "… very sorry?"

"I can't go with you, Gerald."

"We know, and it's alright," Arnold stepped in.

"Forgive me?" Gerald asked, his hands raised in front of him in a sign of contrition. Helga was silent, but her look softened. She moved her head back and forth, as if weighing something in her mind. "Let's see. Dishes. There are some old jars that desperately need cleaning. Oh, the firewood, of course. Those can all wait until after the firewood …"

"What," Gerald started, "what are you talking about?"

"Chores, boy, chores! You come here, keep me from a good sleep, mess up my home, you can't get away with that. Almond-head here will start on the dishes while you chop some firewood." She casually slapped a dish towel onto Arnold's shoulder. "Normally, I'd say either one of you could do either job, but with Arnold being in his weakened state, well …" she patted Gerald's cheek, "you understand."

"And where are you going?" Gerald asked, as Helga purposefully shimmied to her bedroom.

"To get some sleep. You jesters kept me up half the night. Wake me when you're done. But don't be done for an hour, at least. Otherwise-" Bright sparks shot out of her eyes. A sudden wind blew in from nowhere as the door to her room ripped open. Helga, a vision out of a nightmare, hovered into her room, never once looking backward, never looking away from the two men in the kitchen. The door slammed shut, and Arnold and Gerald were alone. An ominous rumbling passed through the house, and then, there was silence.

The knight and the blacksmith's son shared a smile. "She's been pulling that trick ever since she was nine," Arnold giggled.

"She never did say 'otherwise' what," Gerald chuckled in return. Then, with absolutely no prompt from Arnold whatsoever, the dish towel he was holding inexplicably jumped into the air, spun itself into a thin, wet whip, and _SLAPPED_ Gerald on his bottom. He yelped as Arnold looked on in shock.

"That's what. Now go chop some damn firewood," came Helga's door-muffled reply.

CHOCK!

The smell of fresh-split wood and a coming rain did little to lift Gerald's mood, but it did combat the unpleasant scent of the country air somewhat. It was an overcast morning, and the foreboding black cloud in the distance held the promise of even more punishing rain, perhaps an encore performance from the night before.

He readied the next log and swung again. The axe was surprisingly sharp, but, then, how often would a sorceress like Helga have to chop wood? She probably had a chopping spell, or something, that would do the work for her. The piece split evenly, and not for the first time since he started the chore, he expertly spun the axe in his grasp. Position 1, at the ready, Position 2, an upswing, meant to throw an enemy off guard (that is, if he was using Kester's maneuver. Purshii's Opening would have been a thrust), Position 3, guard … heh. Well, the simple tree-chopper in his hands was far from a battleaxe, but he'd supposed he could make do, were it to come to that.

He positioned yet another log on its end on the chopping block, and swung away. In a way, there was a therapy in this, a sort of meditative quality to something that, though repetitive and violent, was beneficial. It provided for needs after all – cooking, heat, blocking the stink from the country air and such – which meant he was doing a good thing, right? Of course it did.

Or so he allowed himself to think so. Gerald was still stinging from the argument earlier with Helga. There were a lot of things you could say about this young man. Call him handsome, a naïve, a scoundrel …

_Scoundrel? I like the sound of that._

But if there was one descriptor that Gerald absolutely balked at, it was _selfish_. And, granted, though that word hadn't been explicitly used in their set-to, it was nevertheless implied, as far as he was concerned.

Gerald was a knight of the realm, instructed in the ways of the Chi-Varin by his town elders, squired at the age of 10, and commander of his own platoon by the age of 20. He may not have been the youngest to reach that position, but he was one of the most respected. There were countless adventures he had gone on, straight into the path of danger in order to save a small town or tribe that the crown or any of it's toadying "nobles" couldn't care less about. He wasn't even strict about the use of his title. As far as he saw it, only those in his command need call him 'Sir'.

Sure, he could be a bit brash. He knew this. His personality was that of one who knew the value of life, having seen so much death. As a result, he saw such things like ceremonies and pomp as a waste of precious time.

And then, there were the women. Yes, yes, fine, maybe there were those who would call him a heartbreaker, a user, what-have-you. But each of his conquests knew who he was. They knew about his title and his money, his mansion that he never requested, and thus rarely visited, let alone lived in. They came after his money and his name, and were in just as much danger as being abandoned as the men they had abandoned for him.

So he was not selfish. He was not. No matter what anyone said.

_No matter what she said –_

CHOCK!

He quickly split another piece before her face could pop into his head. The woman who had first called him selfish. The woman who, despite her many powers and vast intelligence, was able to take a simple, two syllable word and smash his soul with it. Combined with the few tears she had let loose and the obvious hurt in her voice, it burned to that very day.

Any time, every time someone became cross with him, accused him of manipulating or huckstering in order to get his way, the memory of that painful day would flood back into his mind's eye, the day she turned away from him and walked out of his life.

_Phoebe …._

He huffed and chopped into the chopping block. Hadn't he suffered enough? Why was he doing this to himself? And wasn't there enough wood chopped already? He needed to get on the road, get away from his thoughts, _and try and_ _escape that miserable smell!_

Gerald was raised in the country, and knew what to expect when in farm territory. But Helga didn't have any livestock, and the nearest farm was miles away. He figured maybe wood-rot was the cause, but a quick glance at the uncut pile in front of him found nothing that would make such a strong stink. Of course, Helga had an outhouse, but he'd been in there, and she kept it rather clean –

Something just on the outside of his senses caught his attention – he was not alone. He spun around, axe in hand, to see a creature no bigger than two feet tall standing casually in front of him. It was a collection of mottled, black skin that was framed incongruously with severe, green scales. It looked at him with two red eyes that managed to look baleful and apathetic at the same time. Its V-shaped mouth chewed absently on a piece of bloody meat as bits of skin and slime dripped from the corners.

It was an eregilt. It was one of the smaller servants of the Seed.

A leaf fell from a nearby tree. By the time the axe-head had cleaved the lizard-like creature into two gore-drenched halves, the leaf hadn't yet lit upon the ground.

When Gerald rose again, he was in position. The jocular adventurer was gone, replaced by a collection of taught and lethal disciplines determined to hunt and destroy his prey. Ereglits were scavengers, preying on the weak and defenseless – he'd seen the horror visited upon children, the elderly, the sick. These things hunted in packs. More would be nearby.

His eyes darted back and forth, looking for more of the creatures, and was about to yell out in warning to Arnold and Helga, when he noticed the trail of blood that lead away from the splattered ereglit. Of course, it'd been eating something. An animal of some sort. A gopher, squirrel perhaps? He followed the trail, which wound in a strange way away from the house, when he heard the noises. Chewing, grunting. Something … some _things_ were feasting on nearby.

The trail neared the outhouse, which he ducked behind in case his prey was close at hand. Following the telltale crimson with his eyes, he carefully craned his head around the corner of the wooden booth to see what may be on the other side -

And then his stomach dropped, threatening to force his breakfast through his mouth. No less that five ereglits hovered over a twisted mass of blood, dark flesh and sinew as they devoured some poor creature, something large and muscular, and unrecognizable.

Or, it would have been unrecognizable, if not for the saddle that lay tossed aside nearby. It was the roan. The roan that Gerald had ridden so hard to save Arnold's life.

_Nadine's roan._

The last entrail of the last ereglit landed yards away before Gerald's enraged bellow stopped ringing off the hills beyond. The ereglits themselves barely had time to realize someone was attacking them before it was all over, and Gerald himself had taken such a quick leave of his senses upon comprehending the fate of his dear friend's roan, that he would not later be able to recall what (if anything) he was thinking when he sailed into the group. All he was truly able to understand at that point was that he simply had to kill kill kill the hellspawn that did this, as well as the two or three others that, seemingly from nowhere, scurried over to help their compatriots, or at least steal their meal.

From whence they came, Gerald was unconcerned. With each and every one he saw, he struck, hacked, swung and bludgeoned each one, slinging them back to the screaming hell that belched them out. They circled and snapped at him, darting about his legs and coming close to slashing his wound.

One of the creatures, a bigger one, posed to strike at him with its hook-like fingers, dagger-edged appendages that could rip out chunks of flesh and sinew in one swipe, tumbled into a bloody, harmless mass as Gerald swung his axe through the creature's shoulder.

He chopped, crushed, swept and stomped the monsters, liberated of any disciplines or care as his rage took over, directed his actions, turned him into a living death machine. His conscious mind shrank back in fear as his relentless lust for vengeance and blood carried him from one vicious move to the next. He was dead to all wisdom, all logic, any instinct other than destruction.

And then, a breath – a pause for the barest necessity of oxygen to keep his death dance going. And in that moment, the blood-rage faded, the pain and anger and despair for all that was lost in Balmoral, all the lives gone because of this alien madness – all was quiet, almost obediently, allowing the tiny voice of logic and military training to finally speak to his mind:

_The house. You're too far from the house._

Surrounded by the scavengers, he was well aware that he couldn't turn around to look. But he didn't have to. He could see Helga's cottage from the corner of his eye. His stomach sank. He was _at least_ 10 yards away from the house. If he had kept calm, maintained his senses, he may have noticed his movement.

It was in that moment that he also realized why he was here. They led him there.

He tried to clear his mind and continue the fight. These things – they weren't smart. They weren't even instinctually advanced; they had no effective fighting tactics that had been reported. The only real advantage they had was in numbers. But they could be led. Surviving soldiers had reported, on occasion, creatures commanding ereglits and those like them. Not by verbal command, but … well, honestly, no really dependable description of how the chain-of-command within the Seed was structured was ever recorded. Some said that the Seed commanders were human, but that, of course, left something to be -

The little voice would not go away, however. It stuck with him, tacitly refusing to let his desire for carnage share space in his mind. These things were too dumb to have lead him there themselves, so someone had to be doing it. Who? Where?

And why hadn't they overwhelmed him?

The more his mind cleared of rage, the more he began to realize that he had not been facing a small group of ereglits, not a flock, and not a swarm.

Gerald was surrounded by a field of the beasts. More than he could possibly face off against with any hope of survival. He shouted from where he was, "Helga!" and called again, "Arnold!", hoping his voice would carry to the house, without ever taking his eyes away from the hellchildren around him. Could they hear him? Why couldn't they? Helga couldn't have fallen asleep that fast, could she? Certainly Arnold would have heard the shouting and fighting? It was all so surreal -

_Gerald …_

It was a whisper impossibly carried across the wind. Gerald spun, axe at the ready – but where had the voice come from?

_Gerald …_ it came again, a voice unspoken, inaudible but for the fact that he could hear it clearly. It was coming from nowhere.

"What?" he bellowed to the ereglits, hacking up a gaggle of them when they didn't respond.

_No need for all that … _came the wind-whisper again. And the creatures parted. Not out of fear of his axe, but to a will outside their own. He could see them virtually bowing and scraping as they moved away – but not to him. They had a path cleared for him, but he did not move- only followed the path with his eyes, the axe ready in his hands.

Up ahead, there were four large, ash-gray creatures. They stood on two legs, and must've weighed 500 lbs each. Their faces were scowling, horrid things out of nightmare, and each finger was a blade bigger and sharper than his axe head.

They did not charge him, however. The approached him at a pace that could almost be described as gentle, even humbled. This certainly would have had something to do with the load they were carrying – a litter, adorned entirely in silver, with sharp, angular decorations jutting from the top. The monsters, large as they were, virtually glided toward him, stopping midway through the path, placing the litter down undisturbed on the grass below.

Gerald was rooted to the spot. Whatever this pageantry was about could unfold itself on its own. It would meet his axe soon enough.

The door to the litter opened – slid out of the way into some unseen recess, revealing darkness beyond, as if opening into a world of night. There was nothing visible beyond the impossible, inky blackness that the mid-morning light seemed to flee from.

Then there was movement. Gerald readied himself for hell as something stirred within the litter. It stepped out of the carriage, stepped into being, really, as a tall, silvery thing. It flowed from the litter with the casual nature of an art lover strolling through a museum, oblivious to the monsters and carnage that surrounded it.

It, in fact, was a woman. Her thick, black tresses flowed behind her in a slow, almost rhythmic undulation, unaffected by the wind. Her blood-red gown was almost luminescent against the strange, silver-gray tone of her skin. The darkness of the inside of the carriage was perfectly reflected in her eyes – had Gerald not been closer, he would have been convinced that her eye sockets were hollow.

These haunting eyes gazed at him now, fixed upon him with a gentle urgency. Something inside his memory stirred. Something sharp and wrong and incongruous, a memory that had nothing to do with the female thing that he saw before him.

And yet, he couldn't stop himself from uttering the name that the memory brought forth: "Rhonda?"

The thin line that made up the creature's mouth melted into a gentle smile.

She said something – and her voice was the same voice that he'd heard earlier. The voice that had stopped the hordes from attacking.

"My dear Gerald," she said. "It's been too long."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Seed – Part 5  
by KM Scott**

_To BC – Happy Birthday and many more!_

"Can you ever forget our times together?"

The voice was both a melodious hum and alien rasp. Gerald wasn't certain how the entity had gotten so close as to whisper those words in his ear. His most basic training would have had her at his sword point in an instant, yet here she was, a breath's distance from his very face, no space for sunlight between their bodies. Close enough to dance.

The apparition that stood – hovered – before him was unlike any human being he'd seen before. Had it not spoken to him, he may have thought it a sculpture. It's – _her_ – face was unblemished, flawless, an almost silvery-gray shell. Two pools of infinite black space, topped by sculptured eyebrows, stared into his soul.

Her blood-red gown clung to every curve.

"Rhonda?" he asked again.

The corners of her mouth curled up into a smile familiar and disturbing.

"My sweet, brave Gerald. It's been too long," she cooed, the sound of wind blowing through silk. Her hand moved, and he was shocked to feel the softness of human flesh caress his cheek. "Why did we put such a gulf of time between us?"

His axe dropped to the ground, forgotten as he grasped her hand with his own.

"Rhonda …." He struggled for words. "Rhonda …. you've … gods, girl, what happened to you? What I'd heard was …"

What he'd heard was too horrid to mention, even then. A host of irg-wraiths had descended on her ancestral mansion home on Wellington Island. Of the few who survived, a lone servant related in horror what became of the Lloyd clan's youngest daughter. The body was never recovered.

Her infuriatingly pleasant smile remained as she slowly twirled in front of him, as if showing off a new dress. "You know me, Gerald. I float on the fickle winds of fashion. I was in bad need of a change …" Somehow, with a feckless subtlety that she'd mastered before hitting her twenties, she finished her twirl wrapped securely in his arms before he'd realized it, her hands clasping his around her waist. "… and I got my wish."

With every word, she proved herself to truly be the Rhonda Gerald remembered. But this could not be her. He refused to believe it. This was not the spoiled noble he'd grown up with.

"I heard you'd been killed …" he whispered.

"Do I feel dead to you?" she chuckled.

Gerald spun her around and took her shoulders. "Your family is gone. You're entire village was slaughtered! How can you be here?"

She took his arm. "I was made anew, Gerald," she intoned. "It sometimes puzzles even me, when I think about it. Which I don't, not often."

The quiet voice inside him that had warned earlier about the increasing distance he'd been putting between himself and the house noted loudly that he was again being moved away from the sanctuary. He anchored his heels.

"I was … set aside, as it were," Rhonda continued, "one of the chosen few who would oversee the work that must be done here."

At Gerald's puzzled look, Rhonda warmly grinned and waved her hand in the direction of the creatures around them.

"They are beautiful and effective at what they do – but they lack reason. They are but dumb animals in service to a cause far higher than they could comprehend."

She suddenly stopped and made a funny face. Movement on the edge of Gerald's vision caused him to spin and look. A cluster of the irg-wraiths had gathered a short distance away from him.

They were not attacking, though. They jumped up and down, danced little jigs. Here some were balancing on each other's shoulders, putting on a bizarre tumbling performance, over there was a gaggle standing at attention, warbling a familiar tune in their gargling, bestial voices.

It was absurd. They were putting on a show.

He shot a confounded glance at Rhonda, who was subtly directing the display with her fingers.

_She_ was putting on the show.

"Rhonda. Stop this," he directed, his voice hard. His demand seemed to cut her somehow, a hurt expression coming across her face. Her hands dropped to her sides, and the wraiths suddenly ceased their gyrations and caterwauling. Gerald made no small show of walking over and picking up his dropped weapon as he trained his gaze at her eyes.

"I thought you'd like it …" she mewed.

"I'm not in the mood for theater," he said. "You said you were chosen. By who? What do you mean?"

She gave a flip of her hair, which sailed slowly behind her, violating the laws of physics seemingly out of spite. "I have been remade in the image of The Core," she began. "He had seen in me something that no one else had, nurtured it, made it thrive. I was given command over the Hive, and here we are now. Simple enough, really."

"Re-made …" he had softened his tone at hearing the hurt in her voice, against his better judgment. "That would explain your … new look. What is The Core?"

She began to approach him again. "The master of The Seed. The reason behind all of this. Do you really think you need that?"

He blinked in confusion. She was indicating the axe, which, he realized, he had subconsciously pointed at her. "You would use it on me?" she asked.

His fingers flexed on the handle. The question genuinely caught him by surprise. Could he actually hurt her, even now? Rhonda's reported death had ripped out a part of his heart. She had been an unlikely friend of his for years before their … youthful indiscretions. What they had done may have been wrong, but hadn't felt that way at the time, or even in retrospect. Yes, someone was hurt, but the circumstances had been complicated, and the result was -

His reverie ceased when Rhonda stopped in her stride and held out her hands in a motion of surrender.

"Do you think I could be made to hurt you?"

He could still make out the imploring look in her inhuman eyes. He forced it aside.

"Rhonda, you came all the way out here. You've brought an army of these demons with you. You didn't come for me." He narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

She sighed and gave her shoulders a little shrug. "The blacksmith's son, Gerald. We want Arnold."

She was just on the edge of dozing when he burst into her room. Helga snapped awake, instantly alert as Arnold grabbed her shoulders. Instinct overtook affection and she clutched his shirt collar as he hunched over her.

"Arnold!" Helga hissed.

Arnold frantically pointed out the bedroom door. "Helga, outside!" he choked, "The Seed! They're outside!"

She released him and bolted out of bed. Running into the front room, she peered out the window. Her jaw dropped.

"What in hell is he doing?" she barked.

"What? Who?"

"Gerald!" she pointed. "Can't you see?"

She pointed, but Arnold couldn't see anything for the wall of monsters that surrounded the house, glaring at them through the windows. "Gerald's out there? Where? I can't see him!"

Helga was no longer next to him. She had scurried to the back of the room, quickly opening up a small recess in the wall. It'd been hidden from view. "He's _talking_ to someone. He's about to get himself torn apart. What's wrong with him?"

Arnold turned to ask again where she saw Gerald, but his words left him as he saw what Helga hefted out of the hiding space. It was a double-edged blade, simple in design except for the guard, which was heavily engraved with arcane symbols and text. Though it appeared heavy, Helga rolled and swiveled it about as if it had been a natural-born part of her body. She finished with a flourish, her angry glare as sharp as the tip of the weapon. Barely perceptive but clearly there, a tone seemed to ring out from the sword, as if it were singing.

"What is that?" Arnold stammered, his voice a mixture of shock and admiration.

"Elspeth the Avenger," Helga evenly replied.

Gerald's chuckle was both forced and genuine.

"You're serious. I don't believe -" he gesticulated his point, waving his arms in a wobbly, oval shape. "Have you seen this thing? It's laughable, Ronda. It doesn't even begin to resemble anything remotely like a sword. It looks like some sickly flat fish!"

The silvery woman narrowed her eyes, her face betraying no humor. Were she a fleshly human, Gerald would have taken her reaction as confusion. "We want him, Gerald. He must come with us."

He waggled a mirthful finger at her. "There is a reason why you called him 'the blacksmith's son'. You don't call me the priest's son, do you? No. Because I am a knight. I trained, I was a squire, I was knighted. I earned it. But Arnold is truly the blacksmith's son. _Not_ a blacksmith. And that … joke of a thing he's working on is not worth" he gestured toward the throng of monsters "all this, I guarantee you that."

But Rhonda was not looking at him. She looked past him, at the cottage behind him. He quickly stepped into her field of vision. She averted her gaze again, but this time, she stared down at the grass.

The beasts around them were quiet. Gerald could hear the wind.

"It tears at me," she said, "to have to confront you like this. You don't know what you mean to me."

He grasped her hand. "Rhonda … if I mean something to you - if I mean that much …"

He held his arms out to his sides. "Then take me. I'm here. You can have me."

She gazed up at him. "But?"

"But you have to promise to leave them alone. I'll give myself to you. I'll leave with you right now. Just leave Arnold and Helga in peace. That's all I ask."

She took his face in her hands. "Do you have any idea what would become of you?"

He caressed her face as well. "If you're there with me, what's it matter?"

Then she moved forward, and was at his mouth. He tried to match her passion, but found himself outpaced. Her lips and tongue were desperate, drinking him. When they separated, he was gasping.

She slowly studied his face with the palm of her hand, and then withdrew it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You don't know the world I've been shown. We're here for the boy. We will return with him."

Gerald started at her. "Rhonda…"

She turned her back to him and glided over to the divan. "You have five minutes. You may stay in the house, or go. I'd advise the latter. If you leave, no harm will come to you."

Then she was in the carriage, the door shut.

Gerald called her name again, but it was lost in the wash of irg-wraiths surrounding the divan. He gazed after her longingly, though he could no longer see even the divan as the monsters separated, leaving him a clear path to the cottage.

It gave him no sense of relief. Due to her twisted sense of mercy, in five minutes, they would swarm again.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Seed - Chapter 6**

** To BC**

** Happy Birthday, and have many more!**

The door flew open before Gerald's knuckles hit to knock.

"What in the blue hell were you doing out there?" shouted Helga as she grasped him by the shoulder and hauled him into the cottage.

"… talking," Gerald muttered, most of him in the cottage, a part of him elsewhere.

Helga eyed the crowd of irg-wraiths just yards from the door and hissed an incantation. A clutch of the creatures barreled backward, driven by a force unseen, as if Helga's very words smashed them into a battering ram that toppled scores of others behind them.

The door slammed shut.

"Talking to who?" Arnold joined his friend at his side, familiar with his distracted look.

Gerald took a breath and said, "Rhonda."

At Arnold's perplexed look, he said, "Lloyd. Rhonda Lloyd. Lady Wellington."

"No, no," said Helga, having finished an incantation she'd performed on the door, "Lady Wellington is gone, Gerald. I know you had history with her, but that couldn't have been her."

Gerald threw a look at her. "I do have history with her. And it is that history that allows me to say that no, she is not gone, and yes, she was outside." Then he paused, looking off. "Something _like_ her."

"What?"

He'd suddenly broken away, moving to his armor sitting on the chair nearby, still wet from the night before. "If there is a later, I'll explain it then." His cadence was now more clipped, faster. His eyes darted about, mapping out a strategy. "The long and short is this: we have five minutes to get out of here, and there's no doubt in my mind that some of those monsters have a poor sense of timing and may pay an early visit."

Helga's eyes flew wide. "You expect me to just leave my home?"

He deftly put on his chest piece, harness and sword belt, and then went into his knapsack, fiddling with something. "I don't care to argue the point, Helga."

He pointed at the throng outside the window, his left arm now wrapped in a leather gauntlet. "If you wish to discuss it with them, feel free, but a warning-" he then attached something metallic to the gauntlet. "- their conversation skills are notably lacking."

Helga seethed. "Damn it, this is my home!"

Arnold looked at her pleadingly. "Helga, please be reasonable, we didn't lead them here."

Helga opened her mouth to respond, but a loud _click_ stole her attention. The metal fixture secured on the wrist of Gerald's glove sprang open. From it jutted a pair of crescent-shaped razors, four inches long and glinting in the light. Through the anger, the realization of the danger of the situation flashed in her eyes.

Gerald pressed her, "Is there anywhere … _anywhere_ we can run?"

She thought for an eternal second. "A cave. There's a cave at the edge of the forest. There are tunnels inside that lead everywhere in a maze. It's less than a league from here."

The blood drained from Arnold's face. "Less than a league…? That's still so far …"

"Well then," said Gerald, "You'll need time. I aim to give you more time. When I open the door, run. I'll engage them as long as…"

The sorceress spat out what both men at first thought was a curse, actually stopping Gerald from advancing on the door. But she continued, angrily swiping through the cabinets in the kitchen while uttering a litany of spells. Stopping at a particular cabinet, she withdrew an urn. Still spitting out the incantations, she thrust the jar into Gerald's hands.

"What's-?" he managed.

"Here!" she growled, whipping off the urn's lid. Inside was a white powder that shimmered with an eerie, light blue glow. For a second, Gerald was transfixed.

"Ah, hey! This thing's hot!" He yelled, trying to put it back in her hands.

"Indeed it is," Helga barked, walking over to Arnold. "Go pour it out. A circle around the house. And if you don't want your hands seared off, be quick about it."

"But what's this supposed to d-"

"DO AS I SAY!" Helga blared, and the front door flew open again as if fearing for its safety. The force of her enchanted anger blew away yet another host of monsters.

Little more than that was necessary to get Gerald to cooperate. He moved outside, trying his best to stare down the irg-wraiths as he poured the glowing powder in a parameter around the cottage, his hands growing unsteady with the increasing heat.

He couldn't help but notice that the crowd around him looked more agitated before.

Inside, Helga had taken Arnold's arm and moved him to the back of the house. She sat him down in the same secret spot that her sword had been hidden in. "Stay here," she said.

"Helga," Arnold said, trying to stand up. But Helga placed a hand on his shoulder, and he stayed seated. "Gerald said we should run," he finished.

"You will, believe me. Now, _stay here_."

It was meant to sound definitive and strong, a command. But, she had to admit, there was a pleading nature in her voice that worked against it. That and the small caress of his face as she walked back to her sword.

Gerald stormed back in, kicking the door shut and tossing the urn out of his hands. It shattered empty by the wall. Helga eyed him.

"When we see the end of this," she said, "you're buying me a new jar."

Gerald waggled the pain from his hands. "What was the point of all that? You two can't be here! Any minute now, they're going to -"

POPFF! Gerald was in position instantly, sword raised toward the direction of the sound that had sent a jolt through the house. But no enemy was coming. "What in the …?" he muttered. Arnold craned his head from his hiding place, trying to see, but a sharp _snap_ from Helga's fingers stopped him when he tried to get up for a better view.

Silence. Then - POPFF! POPFF! Gerald threw himself against the door and peeked out the window. "What is that?" he whispered.

"The powder," said Helga, her eyes fixed beyond the wall in an intense stare. "Move away from the window."

Gerald did so, and as he did, he saw one of the talonned creatures take a tentative step forward, then another, until it reached the circle of burning powder Helga had instructed him to pour out. As it put its scaly foot down on the ring, it stopped for a fraction of a second, then a flash of pink light _blew out from its insides_, bursting its squiggling innards against the window, a resounding POPFF its only eulogy.

He turned to offer Helga a compliment, but she thrust a finger up at him. _Be silent, I'm concentrating_.

A series of unpleasant vocalizations came from all sides of the cottage, and a strange surge/retreat motion seemed to wave through the throng.

They were fighting each other.

The mass at the back of the crowd shoved against that at the front, which was desperately trying to avoid the ring of powder. A cacophony of POPPF POPPF POPPOPPOPPFFs signaled the failure of the front line creatures. One of the still-intact windows had been rendered opaque by a steadily-replenished ooze of green-gray guts.

Helga coughed, and at once held her sword up. "You ready?" she asked. Gerald shifted his eyes to her. "Always. You?"

She moved over to his side, her gaze never leaving the door in front of them. "How do they attack?"

"In a swarm," he said. "This may be over in a minute or in seconds."

She stole one quick glance at Arnold, then back at the door. "We need to make it longer than that. I've just been in contact with my sisters."

"You ….?" The question of how she could have contacted anyone from simply standing in her kitchen died in his mind almost as soon as it arrived. "You're sure they heard you? Can they come in time? Can they help us?"

"Question number one, yes." She steadied her breathing, her eyes narrowing into slits as she saw the first of the creatures bump up against the house unaffected.

"What about questions two and three?" he asked.

Helga's voice erupted in an ear-splitting howl. The circle of dust around the house blasted into a column of flame. The throng was repelled once more, smashed yards away from the cottage.

Gerald moved to steady the panting sorceress as she pushed the hair out of her eyes. "Stop asking questions," she said.

And like that, she tore open the door and ran out of the cottage, her voice now a blood-curdling roar as she hurled herself at the bewildered wraiths.

A litany of words poured through Gerald's mind as he saw the lithe, beautiful young woman in a pink nightgown run screaming to the mob of beasts. The only ones that registered was not his own, though; it came from Arnold behind him.

"HELP HER!" he screamed.

His feet were thundering across the grass before he even knew it. Helga had already begun her attack, but only a handful of wraiths perished by her blade. She had uttered a number of spells that were taking effect on numbers of the beasts; some were blasting into burning embers, others were frozen where they stood. Taking his cue, Gerald swept the horrid statuaries with his wrist razor. They shattered like ice sculptures.

The knight quickly rid himself of the notion of protecting Helga - the strategy was to clear the mob and make a path for her and Arnold.

As such, he covered a radius around the front of the house. His blade was edged wind, whipping around the wraiths and leaving them to fall to pieces before they knew they were dead. On occasion, he would lose costly seconds by plunging his blade directly through their beaked faces, but his wrist claw would take up the slack, removing the heads of the beasts often three at a sweep.

_Ah, well. Mother always wanted me to be a farmer. Here I am, reaping a harvest. _

It seemed a spectacularly uncomical thing to think, he thought. Why couldn't he be funny during battle?

The slight movement at the ceiling of his vision caused him to drop the thought and flip out of the way as the group of wraiths he was about to sail into was suddenly crushed by one of the winged creatures which, by its increasingly graying and rigid form, seemed to be turning into stone.

His warrior's instincts beckoned him to keep ducking away, and he obeyed, just as the calcifying husk burst into pieces.

Over the din of battle he was able to make out a feminine voice yelling "Brimstone spell! Watch the hell out, bucko!"

He looked up into the gray, cloud-darkened sky, and again, he rolled, ducked and pivoted as a near-squadron of the things cratered into the ground around him, the impact and subsequent detonation taking out even more of the wraiths.

He tumbled again and rolled to his feet, in position, withdrawing his blade from the body of the wraith he'd skewered upon rising. He considered retreating into the house - one of the little demons may have gotten inside. If just one of them had, Arnold would be -

It was more of an agonized grunt than a scream, but the wraith that sliced his leg with its claws had done its damage. Another was on him in an instant, clawing at his back. A third barreled into his midsection and knocked him to his knees. His sword fell from his hand.

He felt his forehead being bashed into the ground by the beast on his back, which was using both its balled paws. The one which had surprised him began to tear away at his leg armor. Gerald struggled to fight both, helplessly swinging at the one at his leg with his wrist razor.

With every bite, every swipe, every hit, he could feel yesterday's wounds opening back up.

The third irg-wraith had gotten back to its feet after bouncing off his middle. It deliberately turned to look at him, as if seeking out his eyes. A new, viscous, gray slime ran from its mouth. The impregnating ooze. The seed.

It inched towards him.

Gerald bellowed and suddenly thrust his hands up and behind him. The wraith on his back gasped a gargled scream as Gerald had driven his razor through its throat. He jumped to his feet and spun in a sweeping motion, knocking away the wraith at his leg with a satisfying _THWACK_.

In one movement, he had regained his sword by booting the hilt, and brought it down with a wrathful cry. His two closest attackers were run through.

Gerald turned then, shooting a glare directly into the hungry eyes of his third attacker.

It seemed to have lost a bit of its confidence.

HA

Helga's hands were bleeding.

Its wasn't simply that she'd been bitten and scratched - she had, of course, but Sir Tall Hair couldn't be faring any better, could he? - but that the had been casting one destructive spell after another. Without powders, meditation or preparation, and that was the worst part. With proper preparation, she could have fought for weeks without food or rest.

But she had had no prep. This was simply dropped in her lap, and now she had to call on her human reserves of strength to see her through. And so, now, she was bleeding from under her fingernails. It made the sword a little hard to grip.

Elspeth, whom her sword was named after, was the warrior who had seen the Scinta sisterhood through the dark Scourge of Shek centuries ago, preserving the faithful from extinction. She was known as the Avenger, and she and her five generals - Scinta warriors all - had created the fighting technique that made the women of the religion devastating.

It was a mix of martial art and sorcery, and Helga had only put a fraction of her knowledge of it to use. Combusting, melting, freezing irg-wraiths fell before her very will. The sword, used as a type of enchanted staff, had caused her to become invisible, move at great bursts of inhuman speed, rip up the internals of an enemy from a distance. And now, at last, she was seeing a break in their ranks. They were not retreating, though - they were being eradicated. A safe path for she and Arnold to the cave was becoming a solid possibility.

But she was tired. No, not merely tired. Between last night and the day's new horrors, she was exhausted. She called upon the goddess to give her strength, trying to force the image of Arnold from her mind as she tried to maneuver over the slick bodies of the fallen beasts around her.

She bashed in the skull of one of them as it hissed at her, another she sliced right in half. The more she fought, they harder they seemed to come at her - they must have known their end was near.

This was but a delaying tactic, however - she'd been out longer than she'd intended to be. She had to move back to the house and see how her two dummies were faring. Calling the name of the winds, she started back to the cottage as gale forces blasted the throng, blowing their dead into their living and bowling them over out of her path.

Her legs pumped her over the dew-kissed grass, and the accumulated slickness sent her stumbling once or twice. A short distance ahead she saw Gerald, and a cry for him to watch out for the wraith coming up behind him died in her throat as she slipped fully and hit the ground running. She quickly collected herself and was up again, but Gerald had seemed to already deal with the wraith that jumped on his back, and soon dispatched the other two.

He then ran into the house. What did he think he was doing? He must have been looking after Arnold, but -

There was a noise behind her. Helga pivoted, slashed, angled and whirled around again - two wraiths down. Two amongst an army. A dwindling army, to be certain, but an army nonetheless. She took her attack stance again, knowing another clutch would be coming at her.

The beasts wailed and growled, surrounding and darting at her, but she was immovable, neither ducking away nor dodging, until with fluid movements she attacked. Her blade sang a dirge for the horrid creatures as she flayed them open, slit their throats, cleaved their skulls. She had expertly stabbed one and kicked it away, bringing her sword arm back and driving Elspeth's hilt directly into one of their faces. The force was enough to smash its eyes out of its socket. It held her attention for a fraction of a second.

Had she not been distracted by the tiny, yellow orb, she would not have seen it - the anomalous activity far off in the distance. She had to continue her death-dance with the swarm while gazing at it, the …. movement? … quite a ways away from the battle. Where was it coming from? What ….

Then it settled into her mind, cold and sick and draining.

The cloud. The big, black storm cloud that had sat in the sky since early that morning over the far hills. It was ….

"Gerald!" she shouted, barreling back toward the cottage.

HA

"The head, boy! Hit it on the head!"

Gerald had fallen again, this time tripped by two attackers as he made it into the house. He'd managed to gore one with this wrist claw, but in the ensuing chaos somehow ended up fending off an increasing group of irg-wraiths using Helga's kitchen table as a barricade. One had become smashed between the doorway and a table leg, and managed to grab Arnold by the arm.

And so it was that he was shouting at the blond youth to kill the monster with whatever weapon he could find, which, at that moment, was the unwieldy lump of pounded metal that he'd intended to make into a sword.

Unfortunately, Arnold didn't seem to know where to grab it. It was heavy as well and, with one arm being yanked out of the house, difficult to swing correctly. He grunted in pain upon accidentally bashing his shoulder.

"Your arm is not the enemy!" shouted Gerald as he gouged a pair of yellow eyes out. He lunged over to Arnold and ripped the lumpy blade out of his grasp, swinging it overhead and pounding the irg-wraith dead with it. "Keep it!" Gerald shouted, and tossed the sword out into the shrieking group.

It plopped to the grass without ceremony. One of the wraiths sniffed at it curiously, and then continued its attack on the house.

"I don't think their interested," said Arnold, nonplussed, after Gerald pushed him back into the kitchen.

"Didn't think they were," said Gerald. Suddenly, he swung his sword in an arc, killing four of the creatures, then yanked the table out of the way. Helga stumbled through the door, falling to her knees as she did. Gerald picked up the table and angled it into the threshold.

"Helga!" Arnold cried, running to her. Her hands were covered in blood, burns and scars lined her forearms. She heaved gasps of air as Arnold helped her up.

"The cloud …" she whispered. "The cloud is …."

Arnold put his hand around her shoulders. "Helga, don't speak. You're exhausted. You-"

She threw his hands off and pointed out the window - the broken one which was strangely not being overrun with wraiths. Gerald moved away from the barrier and glanced out the window. His jaw dropped.

The thick, black cloud outside hovered over the ground as it had since that morning. Something was descending from it - but it was not rain. As it had come closer to the house, Gerald could now see that the cloud was not a cloud at all.

It was a swarm. A swarm of seed monsters.


	7. Chapter 7

The Seed – part 7

by KM Scott

_To BC – Happy Birthday, and have many more!_

Hooves stabbed an unforgiving percussion into the damp grass, a rhythm of desperation whose rushing staccato wounded the hills with its ricocheted measure. The riders who tore across the fields on their mounts meant to signal neither hope nor anxiety with this thunderous alliteration. Indeed, if they meant to convey any message at all, it was a warning:

_When you see us, guts will spill. _

The woman riding ahead of the others sat on the saddle of her Segurian, a horse which had no bit, no reigns. When she turned her head left, the Segurian diverted its course that way; if she were to glance to the right, he would slow a bit, in preparation to change its path again. With every nuance and action, the horse reacted in kind. Even as the woman had slowed her breathing and heart rate, the horse had done the same.

This is how she and her sister warriors had been able to ride non-stop for hours at full speed. It was dangerous, even for practitioners of the Scinta religion, but today, it was deadly necessary.

The priestess knew how necessary it was when they came to Balmoral. They were far too late to combat the horrors there; all that was left was to comfort the dying and heal the wounded. Most of the latter would soon join the former, for the beasts of the Seed left virtually no one alive.

There were few methods they could use to help those who had been infected, but at least one victim of the attack had been given a lease on life through the calling of Astrith. She had administered the healing touch herself, a dangerous ritual that threatened the life of the healer as well as the sufferer. It was for that reason that such a hazardous incantation was performed more than once every few years.

It was quite a surprise, then, that it would happen twice in the same night.

The priestess thrust her arm into the air, her metal-shod fingers holding aloft a curved, bladed weapon that many noted with curiosity was made of wood.

It was a blade of her own creation that she dubbed, through the languages of her mixed heritage, the _khopesh_.

As one, four of the riders behind her raised their own blades into the air, these being far more traditional, double-bladed and made of metal. Two other riders – one swathed in a black robe, the other leaning exhausted on her back, simply continued to barrel forward.

The thick, gray patches of clouds above began to take on a darker hue as they rode forth; an unnatural dimming accompanied by a chorus of dread chitters, caterwauls and bellows in the distance. Coming around one last hill, the riders beheld a tremendous, black mass in the sky, undulating like a ball of serpents over the glen upon which hordes of fanged monsters would drop.

Clad in bright, fitted armor that complimented her feminine form, the priestess brought her horse to a stop and dismounted. No words, looks or gestures were exchanged any further as she, unhurried and with no sign of fear, stalked up to the edge of the glen, yards away from the horde. The four riders dismounted as well, following their general into the morass.

Each voice sang in a low hum behind her. The Scinta priestess then joined in, slowing her pace, and soon five female warriors stood in a motionless line, the swirling cloud of death just above them. At first, the hum was simply five well-trained human voices singing in unison, nothing more than a loss to the world of theater, if anything.

But it rose. It increased in pitch and timbre, and most especially in volume. It grew and grew at an impossible rate, sustained longer than the human capacity for exhaling could stand.

But still they sang. And as each voice rose, so did their swords, pointing higher until each blade was pointed directly at the Seed cloud. Neither the creatures in the sky nor on the ground seem to notice the almost deafening swell of the continuing hum. Amidst all this, the armored priestess began to quiet her voice, her face showing no strain, but her eyes glaring a burning intensity at the monsters above.

Her eyes grew incandescent, and energy radiated from her face, as if a sun had formed inside her. In one graceful movement, she turned her khopesh in her hands, raising the curved blade skyward.

She said something in ancient Tsadish that few alive could fluently speak.

"Leave my sky," she whispered.

The _CRACK!_ that split the air shattered windows in Ambledon, which, for the benefit of those not local to the area, lies four leagues (or about 12 miles) away from Swallow's Cry. While thankfully no one was hurt, a number of the townsfolk, none of whom had witnessed the horror of the Seed firsthand, were quite alarmed to see the burning remnants of the creatures sailing through the sky and smashing into ash along their roofs.

The Sisterhood of the Scinta had, through devotion to the tenants and practices of their religion developed a spiritual sympathy with each other. Magical energies could be directed at a single member and focused through that woman. Doing so came at a price, specifically that all members participating would be temporarily exhausted due to the drain of their resources.

Which, of course, was why the sisters brought swords.

The wraiths, serpents and other monsters, knocked flat from the blast and woozily recovering, had just seconds to clear their jostled perceptions before their heads were smoothly lifted from their bodies.

Sister Sheena had trained as a surgeon. It was with reluctance that she had swung her axe, but noted the irony which she ignored the sounds of bodies being torn open, the spray of viscera all over her armor and tunic as eight irg-wraiths fell apart around her. Had she not had to desperately try and heal those the Seed had brutalized, she may not have become inured to the very horrors she was perpetrating.

The carnage was not as unwelcome to Sister Patricia. Slick entrails virtually rained down around her was she swung her kombahr – a huge mallet with a curved blade at the end of the shaft – at the horde, sending some hurdling into eternity while gutting others. Given her size and strength, it was typically expected that the towering Rathi giantess in her dark, foreboding armor would _relish_ the bloodshed.

In fact, she was rather indifferent to it. Her real hobby was gardening.

"On your side, Gertrude," she said in her husky growl.

The cackling, elderly warrior behind her threw her arms about in movements that the uninitiated would see as random, wild gesticulations from a clearly senile old woman who, bizarrely, seemed to be _dancing_ into a field of the fang-bearing creatures charging at her from her left side.

"Ancient feets and crippled knees

keeps one from flight and one from flee

one grasps one's bottles without stall …"

Wrinkled fingers, unprotected by any form of armor, whipped a glass bottle out of a large bag slung around her shoulder. The black fluid inside incongruously glowed with a quiet menace.

"_Make them kindling, one and all!_"

The explosion that followed was not as loud as the one that destroyed the Seed cloud, but then, it didn't need to be – the spell Sister Gertrude had hissed upon the potion she tossed at the creatures halted their threat – and their lives – entirely, leaving nothing but a crater in their wake. Her raucous laughter rang loud as she landed roughly on her back, several yards away.

The priestess trod evenly behind the other women, who had fanned out to clear a path toward the swarming Seed monsters up ahead. She quietly regained her strength as young Siobhan darted around her, eviscerating groups of the attacking beasts at once. These were not creatures smart enough to deduce the nuances of their opponents, and so Siobhan's talents were somewhat wasted; hundreds of hours spent learning dozens upon dozens of fighting styles, practiced upon volcanic rock, frozen river, and soggy marsh alike, just to be spent on a foe too stupid to appreciate just how deadly she was.

Well, not totally unappreciated. The priestess was certainly grateful for her young pupil's diligence. It gave her time to conserve her strength, for certain, but also allowed her to clear her head for the challenge she knew was forthcoming.

A challenge that had nothing to do with the collection of irg-wraiths that had covered the small cottage she was approaching.

As she stepped closer, the irg-wraiths began to notice her presence. They hissed and barked at her, slime spewing from their snouts as a few dropped away from their spot on the house. Each one shifted their weight from one hoof to the other, surrounding the Scinta priestess in a predatory dance.

She came to a stop. A perfectly calm, unflinching stop. It was not something the demon-beasts expected. It was even less anticipated on their part to see the woman they were preparing to tear apart deliberately remove her helmet, revealing a bob of raven-black hair. It landed with an unceremonious _thud _at her feet.

One of the braver wraiths edged forward to inspect his prey.

CHUNCH! The priestess kicked, and her helmet went flying into the wraith's face, crushing its snout and sending its fangs flying. Before its cohorts knew what was happening, the woman pivoted and sent her kopesh swinging in a circle. The blade was the focus of a daily meditation ritual and had been imbued with power since it was carved. The creatures it came into contact with _erupted_, their intestines bursting up through their skulls in a rush to exit their confinement.

Those creatures that had not been preternaturally disemboweled were temporarily blinded by both the innards of their brethren and a silvery powder that the priestess tossed upon them from a pouch on her belt. What started as digging at their eyes to restore their sight became flailing their extremities to curtail their suddenly being on fire.

"Burning," hummed the priestess, and the flames from the burning powder sprang higher, roasting their hellish fuel sources to cinders.

More Seed monsters had hopped down from the house to attack or escape, but by then it was too late. The priestess had turned her focus and her powders on them, roasting them alive in the process.

Notably, the little cottage remained unburned.

It had hardly been a few minutes between the charge of the horde at the cottage and the arrival of the Scinta sisters. Their attack on the Seed seemed like less time than that, and not partly because Sister Sheena had tossed a cursing elixir on a gaggle of the beasts. It was just an experimental thing, but it seemed to be doing the trick: around them, many of the irg-wraiths and serpents were slowing, collapsing, and gargling their own guts as their insides began to liquefy. It had been unknown if the Seed could suffer from illness, but Sheena's cursing potions had a long history of success – not that she ever wished to employ it. Until today.

The scores of Seed in the air and on the ground had been reduced to scattered clutches fleeing into the mountains. Those that were not dead were painfully dying.

It was not lost on the women that it would be particularly difficult to convince future generations that such a terrible onslaught had been stopped, and its forces eradicated, by a team of three priestesses, an acolyte and a crazy old woman. Were they to see the half-acre of dead Seed bodies that surrounded them, they would feel differently.

* * *

The kitchen was completely black. There had been an attempt to light a candle, but the rushed activity about the room blew it out, and so now, the room's two occupants – one crouched in increasing agony from prior wounds, the other lying next to him, barely hanging on to consciousness – were shrouded in darkness, waiting for the waves of monsters on the other side of the heavily barricaded wall to come bashing through. While Gerald held his wrist-blade at the ready position, Helga struggled to grasp her blade in her battle to stay conscious. If today was going to be their last day alive, they would not die alone.

The entire cottage had shuddered with an explosive sound that Gerald hadn't heard in the worst of thunderstorms, followed thereafter by several more concussive blasts. He eyed the haphazard reinforcement warily – none of his experiences with the Seed involved explosions. What new mayhem was this?

_Why is it suddenly growing so quiet outside?_

Helga's ragged breathing, while reassuring him that she yet lived, provided no answers, and while a new question of whether or not he should peek outside and see what was happening began to intrude on his pondering, he found it a strangely welcome dilemma. Anything to keep from wondering how Arnold was faring was an agreeable distraction.

BOOM! Another rumbling shock, this one smaller, but right at the house. Gerald threw himself over Helga's prone form as chunks of furniture flew at them. The heavy kitchen table was smashed in half and the door was rendered an unidentifiable pile of splinters.

The sight of this sudden destruction was almost as shocking as the fact that every last piece of newly made debris was hovering soundlessly in the air, inches away from Gerald's head.

This sort of phenomenon was impressive, but not new to him. Gerald sprang from his position and had both his sword and wrist-blade ready to thrust into the attacking horde.

The huge, hammer-bearing woman who stepped through the gaping hole in the wall, however, was a not a horde. His instincts froze him in place as he looked up – _very up_ – at the warrior before him.

Her massive weapon held at the ready in hands large enough to crush his skull, her face almost entirely obscured by her helmet, save for the intense, baleful eyes bearing down upon him, she stood like the very image of doom amongst the pulverized remains of the wreckage which stood as herald to her lethal strength.

"I come in peace," she said.

Gerald placed himself firmly between the armored woman and Helga. "Peaceful callers knock first," he said. He reflexively switched to a charging stance, his sword held level with his eye line – something moved just beyond the mountain of a woman facing him. "Hold there," he shouted, "In the name of the king, show yourself!"

The priestess emerged from behind Patty, hands empty and weapons sheathed in a show of respect that even Gerald realized she didn't have to show. She moved with the deceptive grace of a panther, calmly standing next to the giantess, her eyes trained on him, large, gentle, hazel eyes, a pair of ground-glass lenses – "glasses", she called them – resting on the bridge of her nose.

Phoebe.

Gerald couldn't bring himself to speak. The bespectacled priestess and previous meaning of his life approached him, gently touched his arm, and asked, "Helga?"

Gerald wordlessly gestured toward Helga, whose eyelids were fluttering at that point. Phoebe was at her side immediately, whispering incantations between evenly-voiced pleas to stay awake. "Sheena!" she called, and the healer with green-tinted, golden tresses ran into the room.

Sheena lit in front of Helga, on her knees, bottles and bandages already being pulled out of her satchel. She began work on the fading sorceress, massaging her energy points and cleaning the dried blood from her hands and forearms.

"She's gone," Sheena whispered.

"What?" Gerald cried, but saw that Helga's chest was still rising and falling.

Sheena cast a quick glance at Phoebe. "The beasts came after her. So, she dismounted and …"

She handed Phoebe something; a large necklace studded with odd-looking jewels. Gerald couldn't make out what it was from his position, but it was certain Phoebe could – her expression had melted into a blank stare.

She looked to Gerald. "Who else was here?"

He knew it wasn't the time to explain the how's and why-for's. "Arnold. You remember, the blacksmith's son. He was-"

"Where is he?" she demanded.

How this woman was able to make him stammer after all these years was a mystery to him. "Th-the woods! Helga made him … _fly_ out of here when the horde attacked. She said there was a cave in the woods –"

A horrible, unearthly, piercing howl came from somewhere outside the house. Phoebe snatched up the necklace and tore out of the cottage, her only words being, "With me! Now!"

The giantess fled after her. Gerald would not let his confusion stall him. He ran out after the women as they headed towards the forest at the edge of the glen. "What was that?" he yelled at them. "The Seed?"

"No," said Phoebe, drawing a rope out of her satchel. "One of our own."


	8. Chapter 8

The Seed – part 7

by KM Scott

_To BC – Happy Birthday, and have many more!_

She told him to get out. Naturally, he didn't go.

Helga stared at Arnold with glazing eyes, her skin pale in the darkening light inside the cottage as Gerald struggled to throw up a makeshift barrier along the front room wall.

"Arnold," she implored, her voice little more than a ragged whisper. She raised a shaking hand at him, web-like lines of blood seeping from under the fingernails and gashes on her wrists.

Arnold moved to grasp it. "I won't leave you-"

Helga flexed her fingers. The wind roared past his ears in a WHOOSH as Arnold was lifted off his feet by an unseen and clearly unreasonable force. He gasped in pain as he bashed through a back door of the cottage. His head was almost between his knees and his bottom lead the charge over the grass outside. For one fleeting second, he noted with interest that he may have been experiencing what a shuttlecock went through on a common basis.

He only had a moment or so to notice that up seemed gray and down seemed green, and that he was heading away from the house, at a good clip. Then his jaw banged into the top of his skull, and something harsh, sharp, and unforgiving started digging at his posterior.

Suddenly, he drew to a stop, then rolled on his side from the momentum. He winced as he stood, pulling at whatever it was that poked itself into his trousers. It was a pine cone.

He was in a forest. Far away from the cottage. Helga had … _pushed_ him into the forest behind the cottage. She wanted him to go to the cave.

_The cave that was "less than a league" from …._

Arnold's thoughts were interrupted by strange noises from all around him. He wanted desperately to run back to the cottage and help Helga and Gerald, but pain stabbed at him just from the effort of getting to his feet. His wounds – the ones sustained from the irg-wraith attack, the very wounds that Helga had dressed – were distressed, probably opening up again due to his violent flight.

He wouldn't be able to do them any good.

Arnold stood for a moment, trying to focus on the odd noises. The cottage was too far away and just over a rise in the landscape for him to see. He heard the swarm of monsters. He could only imagine what they were doing to two of the only people he had left in the world. He knew he should be heading for the cave – but how could he and just leave his friends there? And where was this cave anyway, it's not as if Helga had given him directions –

And then a god must have stomped on the world, because a booming noise, the intensity of which he'd never before heard, shook the woods around him and flattened him again on his back. His wits were intact enough for him to scramble for a loose branch to upright himself a second time.

He had no idea what the blast had been, but the universe seemed to be making it clear to him: It was time to run.

Well, limp. Leaning on the branch for support, Arnold hobbled aimlessly over the twisted brush, trying to get some idea of where he'd been meant to go. The terrain was still slick from the rain, and so he would slip, even tumble on some occasions. More alien noises and the odd _THUMP _of what sounded like explosions could be heard from the distance. What was going on?

He forced the question from his mind, along with the inevitability of his best friend and love of his life dying. Another concern was quickly taking its place in his growing list of worries: there could be any number of caves in this area. Which one was he looking for?

He'd only been walking for a few minutes when he'd seen the black mound behind a clutch of trees. Shambling further ahead, he could make out the darkening of a shadow on one side of the mound – the mouth, possibly. This could have been it. He tried to ignore the growing pain in his side as he struggled up some rough land which turned out to be an incline heading up toward the cave.

And then something hissed behind him.

It could have been a simple animal, such as a bear or an idrix. Of course, a bear could tear him to shreds and an idrix typically outweighed a bear by a good 14 stones. So, all-in-all, there was really nothing to take comfort in. But Arnold did not look back. He would not turn around. He was going to make the cave; he was going to find shelter. He would not give whatever was chasing him the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

There was another hiss, this one followed by the characteristic, stuttering _chut-chut-chut_ sound. The sound he was too familiar with. The sound he'd heard as he had been bitten, before his world went away. When he woke up, he had seen the face of his angel.

He somehow knew that would not happen a second time.

_Chut-chut-chut_. The sound came again, this one on top of the other. There was more than one. More and more hisses came from the brush around him, and he could tell as they closed in on him that the first had probably told the others where to find him. He tried to quicken his pace.

_Hiss-chut-chut-chut_. He stepped on a smooth rock which dived out of its bed under his weight. He lost his footing and fell, once again, face down in the wet dirt, sliding to a stop at the foot of the incline. He reached for his makeshift crutch, and something moved just at the corner of his vision. He picked up a stone and tossed it into the brush nearby. It landed with a thud, but he could sense no more movement.

He regained his branch and stood again, pain and exhaustion dogging his every move. They were directly behind him. He could tell. They were going to attack at any moment. He had no idea why they hadn't already, really. Why were they waiting? Was it a game? Were they toying with him? They seemed to be creatures made of pure cruelty. It did not seem out of their nature. _Hiss-chut-chut-chut_. Arnold tightened his grip on the branch.

And then one of the things casually walked out in front of him.

Slime dripped from its maw as it regarded him with sickly green eyes. He was in no position to fight. He wondered, however, if he could brain at least one of the things before they killed him. Gods, he missed Helga's face-

All at once, the irg-wraith suddenly squawked or barked or something, jumping up and down in a display of what Arnold could only assume was …. Well, he didn't know what it was expressing, really – these things didn't show fear.

Or, such was his conviction – he could've been wrong. The forest was abruptly alive with a gaggle of irg-wraiths, scrambling and hooting and crashing into each other. The throaty chants and hisses from earlier were replaced by chicken squabble. But most importantly – they seemed to be ignoring him.

He didn't bother to wonder why. With renewed vigor and grateful thanks for what was presumably a chance at salvation, Arnold fought against agony and gravity, pushing himself up the incline with every ounce of strength that he had. He was putting in such a concentrated effort that, had he not stopped to catch his breath, he may have missed the bizarre, piercing howl from somewhere in the distance.

In a way, it was really no more unusual than any of the other monstrous noises he'd heard since Balmoral. But he inherently knew this sound to be different. He could see from the violent shaking of the brush around him that the irg-wraiths were even more agitated upon hearing the sound, running away from the woods at a faster pace.

Something close by had_ scared the gathering of irg-wraiths._

Arnold grasped a tree trunk and virtually _threw_ himself up the rest of the incline.

Cracks and shuffling approached the area. Arnold continued to the mouth of the cave, stumbling a bit as he lowered himself into the hole, trying not to think about what he might find down there. Things had gotten uncomfortably quiet in the last few seconds, and he had to keep his mind sharp.

He nestled himself in a natural groove in the wall of the cave and sat perfectly still, trying to quiet his breathing. He intently watched the trees and brush outside for any movement. He jumped once or twice at something shaking the leaves, but it was only the wind. He'd have to get himself under control.

He inched just so to his right, trying to press himself completely against the wall, when he noticed that the curvature in the rock formation formed a small shelf above him. It seemed even more recessed into the wall than his current position. Drawing a deep breath, Arnold struggled to climb atop the shelf. He heaved and grunted in pain and effort, and nearly cursed himself when he'd finally wedged himself in – the shelf wasn't as wide as he'd thought. Still and all, he was more concealed than before. He slowly inched himself further in.

He stopped when something small with dark-green skin shot past the cave entrance. It took a second to register that the thing had run in the _opposite_ direction of the approaching thing in the woods.

The boy with the somewhat almond-shaped head stared dumbfounded. Whatever this thing was – did it change its direction? Was it driving the wraiths back?

He'd barely begun to think about these questions before the green thing returned to the mouth of the cave. It was an irg-wraith, unmistakably.

Arnold stopped breathing.

The grotesque creature nervously sniffed the air, its head twitching to and fro, yellow eyes wide in what was definitely a look of unease. Its clawed feet started to back further and further into the cave.

Arnold's teeth grinded as his jaw clenched. The damnable thing was looking for shelter in _his _cave.

Another howl was heard, far closer than it had been before. It was accompanied with a sick, rasping, alien wail, and for once, Arnold's eyes lit up with hope: whatever it was out there may have killed an irg-wraith. His light faded, however, when he saw the intruder at the cave mouth dart into the darkness inside.

Arnold didn't even have time to brace himself – but he didn't need to. The wraith ran past as if it hadn't noticed him. Lucky.

Lucky until it smelled him and returned, anyway.

Minutes passed in the length of a lifetime. The pain in his side became overwhelming; he had to shift his weight. He slowly began to inch his torso to the other side. He couldn't wait here forever, he knew that. But what could he possibly do? There were bound to be pockets of Seed everywhere. It would be foolhardy to think that whatever was outside hunting them would be friendly. Even if the woods were clear of those who wished to devour him, he had no idea where he was, and wouldn't survive the night with his wounds.

Panic was a very uncomfortable feeling for Arnold. He had been known as a tireless optimist his whole life for good reasons. He was always able to look at the bright side of things, always able to see a way out when all others saw closed doors. But he had been inches away from death less than half a day ago. It scared him. He'd never felt so helpless in all his life.

He'd been so taken with trying to stifle the growing cold in his belly that he failed to notice the acrid stench at first. A smell he knew all too well.

The irg-wraith had come back. It was close enough to smell.

He still had his stick. It had no chance of working, but he would not die helpless. He could hear the fearful respiration of the thing near him. Perhaps it was just looking to see if the coast was clear. A roar from outside froze both of their breathing.

Arnold decided not to waste the moment. He lunged over the side of the shelf and stabbed, swung, clubbed. A roar of his own burst from his throat as he attacked with a strength he'd never known, even when fit and healthy. Even if he didn't kill the wraith, it would know it had been in a fight for its life.

It was thus with a mix of shock, horror, and a bit of disappointment that Arnold opened his eyes and realized he was attacking the empty air. There was nothing there!

Arnold darted his head back and forth. It couldn't have possibly run away without him seeing it. He would have at least heard the things claws on the cave floor. Where had it gone?

Something thick, wet, and revolting dripped on his shoulder. Arnold looked up. Above his shelf was a smaller, rocky outcropping.

Resting atop it was the irg-wraith, drool dripping from its maw.

The curiosity it held in its eyes upon watching the bizarre-acting human attack the nothingness beneath it melted away to the narrowed gaze of a predator about to feast. Startled, Arnold tried to roll off the shelf onto his feet, but only managed to fall on his wounded side. He fought down the cry in his throat, but it managed to escape anyway.

The wraith above him snarled a hateful sound as it drew its lips back, revealing steely teeth. Arnold wanted to grab his stick, but it killed him to even roll onto his back. The irg-wraith descended its mount; slowly crawling towards the helpless human in a move that Arnold realized was deliberate. It was trying to inspire more fear. The yellow in its eyes began to glow red, and a stinger at the back of its throat began to unsheathe itself from some unspeakable organ. Arnold had seen this before. It was how they injected eggs into their victims.

He closed his eyes, forcing tears to run down his scratched and bruised cheeks.

He screamed a long and loud scream of desperation and terror as the wraith landed bodily on top of him. He pounded his fists against it, rammed his knees into it, ignoring his agony as he battled it in the fight of his life.

It was a battle, he noticed, that seemed very one-sided.

Arnold opened his eyes. The irg-wraith lay across him, in a position that seemed to Arnold as if it were trying to guard its catch from another predator.

He realized he would have to re-evaluate his guess when he saw the irg-wraith's head laying a good distance away from the body, sliced cleanly from its neck, a stupid-looking rictus of surprise spread across its face.

He thrust his arms against the beheaded beast and finally shoved it off of him. He moved to get to his feet, but fell in the effort, managing to sit upright, his arms and legs flailing as he scooted himself backwards, pushing himself away from the corpse. It was just about the point where he'd began to notice that the light in the cave had darkened considerably when he roughly _banged _into something rigid behind him. He turned to see what it was.

And the monstrous thing, whose leg he'd banged into, bent down to look at him.

Suddenly, Arnold was up in the air as the massive, humanoid beast held him up for inspection, its fingers easily wrapping about his waist. Its snout was flared, sniffing his scent, as its mouth full of sharp fangs growled and grunted in some kind of utterance that he couldn't begin to understand.

"I-I … ah …" Arnold nonetheless tried to communicate. The thing had eyes, he was sure of it, but the massive matting of crimson hair exploding from its scalp and covering its face made it hard to see. That and the patches of blood that speckled it. He couldn't help but wonder where that blood came from.

The creature curiously sniffed at Arnold with deep snorts which he couldn't match with three pairs of lungs. "Please –" he once again tried to reason. But the thing wasn't listening to him. It suddenly craned its head to some unheard sound. Then it turned to look at Arnold again, and this time he saw its large, black eyes boring right into his.

And then, with Arnold screaming in its grasp, it rushed them both from the cave.


End file.
